


PS 3543 
.A5655 A65 



1917 




•-y \ ••^r-' y '\ ''?3^- ^^"-. '-^.^ ,^"-\ 









►* 0^ 
















V ^I'o^ ' 









7' aO^ 































^^^^^' 















tf 








v-^^ 

.<=>^^^. 



,-€? ^^. . 











ACROSS THE 
THRESHOLD 



By 

BARON VANE 



With a literary appreciation 

by 

CHARLES SYDNEY TARRETT,-M.A., Ph.D. 



HAROLD McNAIR, Publisher 

MiDDLETOWN, PENNSYLVANIA 






^5(i65ft t 



^'7 



Copyrighted 1917 

BT 

Harold McNair. ^ 



FEB -/ hJ17 



Copies of "Across the Threshold," and later works of Vane, in uni- 
form edition, may be obtained at book stores or from the publisher, 
$1.50, postage prepaid. 



>CI,A-i53S43 



Preface. 

The late Baron Vane was born, presumably out of wedlock, in the 
month of June, 1894, in a farm house along the Susquehanna River 
in eastern Pennsylvania. His mother, who had lived there for but a 
few weeks, died in child birth without revealing her real name, and a 
perfunctory quest by the authorities brought nothing to light con- 
cerning her identity. The name, "Vane," in a locket of the woman, 
was used as a surname for the infant. The name, "Baron," was given 
to the boy as a nickname at an early age; according to hearsay half 
in jest, and half in earnest, because of the proud, shy bearing of the 
lad that seemed to indicate some innate quality in him which was 
destined in later years to reach such splendid fruition. It finally 
superseded his given name, which is unable to be ascertained. 

Vane grew to early teens on the farm, made few acquaintances ; and, 
dying, left little definite biography that could be gathered by the pub- 
lisher. He was accustomed to absent himself from his foster home 
for frequent and lengthy intervals without explanation as to his 
destination or the nature of his occupation during his absence. While 
at home, he worked on the farm during the day and spent the night in 
reading, studying, and writing. He left an enormous amount of 
pencilled manuscript which is now being put into shape for publica- 
tion ; and which includes, in addition to the poems of his earlier years 
published herewith, an epic poem of great strength and beauty, several 
dramas in prose and verse, and various essays and minor poems that 
attest to his capacity for sustained endeavor, his versatility, and his 
precocious and powerful genius. 

In spite of this quantity of manuscript which gives mute testimony 
to his great industry and diligence, he was considered an idler who 
wasted his time and ability in aimless exertions. He is described as 
being slovenly as to dress, although scrupulously clean; and careless 
as to his personal appearance, although he is said to have been slender, 
above the medium height, athletic and well formed, with a pleasing 
countenance. 

According to his manuscripts, he was to have published his works 
privately but lacked the necessary means, and had made various un- 
successful attempts to dispose of his epic to publishers, and of his 
lesser poems to periodicals. His better poems he had a curious distaste 
to seeing in the magazines. 

Vane died of pneumonia contracted from sustained exposure after 
rescuing a child from drowning in the Susquehanna River near his 
home in the February of 1915. He was a practiced and powerful 
swimmer but the exertion of breaking through the ice to reach the 
drowning child, and the time spent in resuscitating it, brought on an 



4 PREFACE. 

acute attack of the disease which proved fatal within a few days of the 
incident. 

Although unacquainted personally with the author, his literary ef- 
fects were forwarded to the publisher for disposition, the first step 
toward which is taken in this volume with the presentation of a selec- 
tion from his earlier poems. 

This collection does not pretend to be a complete anthology of 
Vane's writings but is merely the introductory volume to his later 
v/orks which will be presented in due order. A few later poems, nota- 
bly several of his death bed poems, are inserted in this volume as 
biographical helps for the interested reader in the absence of more 
definite evidence concerning his life. 

If some of the verses are rough or appear unfinished, they are never- 
theless presented without apology. They are the earlier writings of 
a boy in his teens. The manuscripts from which they were gleaned 
are illegibly written with pencil upon backs of envelopes, scraps of 
coarse wrapping paper, and similar odds and ends. The publisher is 
too conscious of his own lack of merit to attempt any polishing, lest 
in cutting the stones an error be made that leaves a ruined jewel. It 
would not be the author's wish to see his frequently rejected poems 
retouched by an automaton lapidary after a lengthy and perhaps vain 
search for one of sufficient skill to do them justice. Therefore they 
are presented as they were written, without revision, few with correc- 
tion or annotation by the author, to be their own vigorous excuse for 
being. 

Advertisement makes the popular poet. These works will not be 
advertised save by voluntary admirers of a poet who is now dead and 
therefore runs no chance of being harmed by adulation or over feed- 
ing. There are no funeral expenses to be met, no heirs or assigns to 
be paid, no widow or orphans, no bequests, no percentage given to the 
Red Cross, or to arm and equip a fighting unit for border service. 
The fugitive verses have but their own merit to commend them. If 
a sufficient amount of money is realized to assure the publication of 
Vane's remaining works in an edition of corresponding worth, which 
works will be published at some future time regardless of the reception 
accorded to these juvenile poems of a poet who died in his twenty-first 
year; the publisher and the few contributors to the initial expenses 
will be entirely satisfied with the result? of their slight endeavor. 

The Publisher. 



PREFACE. 5 

FRAGMENTS OF AN INTRODUCTION to an edition of his 
works to have been published by Vane. 

the poems in this volume have been rejected frequently and 

repeatedly by numerous periodicals. Pseudo critics have condemned 

them almost as a unit, and My object in presenting them 

humbly is to discover, therefore, what intelligent and 

people will think of them. 

Some of the effusions in the ''Satanic school" will meet with con- 
siderable disapproval. (Publishers note — Few of these are enclosed.) 

for my Muse is a sorry jade not censure me no pity 

on the poor psychic medium who conveys her ragings to the dear public. 

There are some on Anarchy — I am not an anarchist, although I 
sympathize most heartily with many of their doctrines. 

There are some on Free Love — I am chaste and retiring by nature 
and disposition. 

There are some on Atheism — Who would be so foolish as not to be- 
lieve in a deity? 

There are some embarrassing poems in the first person — They are 
by no means auto-biographical. 

There are some on devils — I am not a bit devilish. 

I have not earned a right to these titles. No more so in fact than 
because a man writes "criticisms," he should be disgraced by the stigma 
of "critic." 

I am now engaged upon a thoroughly modern and up to date an- 
thology of the best rejection slips, which I have collected with a great 
deal of trouble. No expense has been spared to secure the rarest 
specimens of this popular form of literature. Had a great majority 
of the present writers secured this collection, they would have been 
persuaded not to put their works in print and would have benefited 
themselves (and everybody else) immeasurably. This valuable work 
is copyrighted and is absolutely the only one of its kind in the field. 
It will be of no small value to prospective writers as it covers the 
same ground which would necessitate years of labor and hundreds of 
dollars in postage alone for an individual. 

The contents range in color from a vivid angry crimson to a pale 
delicate mauve, and are mostly bald plagiarisms as to subject-matter. 
The edition consists of four quarto volumes, printed on the justly 
celebrated India paper, sepia finish. It is profusely illustrated by 
the author, has an elaborate and comprehensive index, and is appro- 
priately bound in calf. 



Introduction. 

When we peruse these poems it is with a feeling of sadness, not for 
the dead genius who gave them birth, nor for his failure to reap a due 
reward of recognition ; but for the splendid songs that perished with 
him; that the promise revealed in a poet of such youth and of such 
ability should be blotted out forever. No phoenix shall arise from his 
ashes : 

"In death he loses us, eartli — not a thing I 
And we lose him, lose all — how can I sing?" 

He had not only knowledge, this boy, he had vision ; knowledge of 
things as they are, and vision of things as they ought to be. Such 
ability needs no interpretation. It is as futile as it is foolish to at- 
tempt any superficial dissertation upon or inquiry into the secret of 
his genius. 

And yet a short introduction to the following pages and a brief 
literary appreciation of their contents can have no unfavorable influ- 
ence upon the manner of their reception : 

"Nee volucres plumiae faciunt, 
Nee cuspis Achillem." 

And the temptation to rhapsodize over a dead poet of unknown per- 
sonality, to grow fulsome over the bier of a poet who died without a 
word of commendation, and who may be created anew in one's mind, is 
too great to be denied ; especially when praise be not given to a living 
man as his true meed ; when we need not admit personal inferiority. 

From the strain of melancholy sweetness that runs through most of 
his love songs and the undercurrent of half bitter, half sad realization 
of the grinning fate that seemed to clog his giant strides, we can im- 
agine that a premonition of his early and tragic death haunted Vane 
even in his earlier writing. His wistful picture of Rupert Brooke, 
written as it was by a master to a disciple, brings us a vision of this 
gallant poet in his own person. 

And yet despite this poignant sadness and the gay swing of some of 
his verse, his principal characteristic is power — the power of a true 
poet, that recognized and laughed at mortality and death; that met 
the oncoming Lethe wave of oblivion with a careless, mocking smile 
and a slender gauntlet tossed with a defiant grace into its towering 
midst. 

7 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

The power that wrote, "Curse," "The Poet at The Threshold," 
and, "The Ballad of The Gentle Troubador," on a deathbed with 
strength fast ebbing, and with the mind racked by the physical agony 
of the terrible strangling plague which enveloped him, leaves us with 
no maudlin pity for the man in extremis ; no tears for his premature 
death, only an admiration for the heroic figure of Baron Vane, dead 
and living genius, who gave his splendid young life that a child might 
live, and who devoted his last moments to the service of his true God. 
Even in the course of his tedious suffocation he heard the call, 

"Poete, prend ton luth! Prend ton luthl 
C'est moi, ton immortelle !" 

and he answered freely and joyously, 

"0 van ! Ama ! 
Eres alma. 
Soy corazon I" 

"Che sara, sara" : the man is dead. Yet his genius is not lost. At 
an age when Bryant was childish, when the devoted Kirke White 
was writing drivel, before Keats had begun his destiny; Vane, un- 
assisted and unknown, had completed a splendid contribution to the 
literature of the world. Beside his earlier poems in this volume he 
leaves a long epic, several dramas, a collection of minor poems, and a 
number of essays of powerful thought and masterful handling. 

In his epic and in these later poems his work is never halting, never 
strained. The freedom and motive force of Byron is combined with 
the refinement of Shelley and the rounded, sonorous periods of Milton ; 
all three of whom were numbered among his favorite poets. 

The years gave little to Vane. His early poems have the vigor of 
his youth bound by an iron will into the expression of an experience 
of men and things imusual with such physical immaturity. He 
sprang full-panoplied from the brow of Minerva, who sprang from 
Jove himself. He was primarily an apostle of Knowledge. Learning 
was his God, and Art his servant. 

Despite his fierce espousal of the cause of the masses he is by no 
means a plebeian. His "Timon" in this juvenile volume, his love for 
the beautiful and his aesthetic tastes as revealed in his prose and later 
and more finished verse, are sufficient proof of that. His satirical 
essays on the classes and masses, and his mocking dissertations on 
conditions, show that this lad was no bitter iconoclast but a rational 
and powerful thinker. In his clever and humorous sketches his shafts 
fall impartially. Although he was penniless and without facilities for 
writing and for the disposal of his work, rejected and unknown. 



INTRODUCTION. » 

clamped in a mute inglorious sod, he was not influenced by his im- 
mediate surroundings to any appreciable extent. 

Eecognizing that, "Bog lubit Bogadich, Bogati lubit Boga, he was 
not daunted thereby. "Baba," of his juvenile verse, is an example of 
the imperturbable grin with which this boy greeted adversity. His 
jibes fall as heavily upon his sometimes embarrassing predicaments 
as upon other and extraneous persons and affairs. 

Fierce and bitter as his pen could be, it could also write delicate 
lyrics and verses of delicious gayety and humorous abandon. Aristo- 
crat of letters was this Baron Vane. A staunch believer in class, not 
the class of blue blood, nor of gold, but the class of brains and ability. 
All other distinctions were the objects of his strongest scorn, his most 
delicate satire, or his most mocking laughter, and as all true poets he 
strove for the adoption of such communism as should develop and 
nourish such a class and grant them their rightful position, with 
equal opportunity for all, regardless of rank, affluence or station. _ 

His writings are fundamentally introspective. With no peer withm 
bis acquaintanceship, with no opportunity for a communion of mind 
with one of like high aspirations, he was forced to become a student 
of auto-psychology, and of self -philosophy. He was Socratic in a less 
fundamental sense. "Know thyself," was to him a means rather than 

a fulfillment. ^-,.1,1 ^ j 

His real feelings subdued by a powerful will and a set purpose, and 
covered by his careless, mocking smile and his inevitable jest, are re- 
vealed clearly in his different verses. . ^ .i, 

"Wright Brothers" shows the lofty contempt of a genius lor the 
clods who dared question him at times, and presume upon equality. 

"Some Mute, Inglorious Milton," is a beautiful example of feeling 
and understanding, and the despairing cry— 

"I feel ecstatic beat 
Thrill through my whole poor soul, and yet— voiceless !" 

ie a magnificent appreciation of the position of one with his sensitive 
nature and need for expression, and not gifted with his divine voice. 

"Self Slain," and a score of others, show his defiant scorn for the 
asinine systems which throttle the strength of the Eace. 

Within the narrow confines of a sonnet he bound the greatest war 
poem of these mad years, greater than his own, "War," the blasting 
arraignment conveyed in "Deutschland!" This is followed m less 
terrible beauty but no less power by "England," "The Glory of War, 

and the sister sonnets. ^ . .-, • t u. • 

In fourteen lines he covered the entire theory of the single tax, in 
a concise biography of one of his favorite authors on economic sub- 
jects, of which he was a profound student. 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

Equally as noteworthy is his terse and clear-cut "Give Us Barabbas !" 
a vivid exposition of the question of equal suffrage. 

His love fancies are beautifully wrought and touched with a delicate 
lyric tone not to be expected in the author of "The Eevenge of the 
Atheist," a sonnet almost brutal in its strength; "The Punishment 
of Cupid" is a delicious fantasy; "Greek Fire," in its tender portrayal 
of a lasting flame, is one of his best efforts in this line ; "The Jitney 
Poet," "The Little Excommunicator," and several other models of 
satiric humor enclosed, round out a representative collection of Vane's 
earlier works. 

He was no idle rhymester, this youth, despite his finish and grace, de- 
spite his regard for style as opposed to the formless mouthings of the 
pseudo vers libre schools who take pride in imitating the barbaric 
chants of the voodoo man of the Af ric bush : 

"Beat your crude drums, I sing the living lyre !" 

Knowledge was his God, and only before wisdom he bowed; of all 
else he was tolerant or scornful. Youth that he was, he must have 
touched the heights and depths of life, for his pen was dipped in blood 
and tears and wine. No narrow versifier, he wrote from all view- 
points and of all phases of existence; tender, beseeching love sonnets, 
delicate lyrics, gay rondels and ballads; but ever through his verse 
runs the vein of granite, the enduring strength and steadfast purpose 
of the master. 

Much of his work is couched in terms of fierce and bitter antago- 
nism to conditions which he could not see altered. "Panama," his 
splendid epic poem, now on the presses, may be attacked on this ground 
in spite of its true majesty, its beautiful allegories, and its lofty 
grandeur of tone. But this is not the hotheadedness of youth, a fault 
common alike to the immature and the visionary; nor an expression 
of the real thoughts of the poet himself. We must here detach the 
personality of the man from his writings. In this poem he is merely 
the "psychic medium," as he says, the mouthpiece of a gigantic and 
blindly milling herd which is expressed in flashes of beauty and of 
ferocity as life itself is expressed. 

"Alles nimmt ein End hinieden," and loss as we style his early 
death, perhaps after all it is balanced in the scales. Eor this boy has 
shown us how to die. Lying on his deathbed, he weighed the issues 
confronting him with eyes steady and unafraid, and his lofty answer 
is enshrined forever in "The Ballad of The Gentle Troubador," a sub- 
lime biography. And his solution, materialist though he was, is the 
triumph of the idealist over the materialist, of the poet over the 
worshiper of Knowledge : 

"Pile up strength, knowledge, all — but not to live! 
Bound out a splendid soul. 
And if at need the whole. 
And life itself is asked — be God and give!" 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

In his, "Poet At the Threshold," he binds poetry and life in a 
splendid appreciation of the fellow significance of rhyme and mortality, 
and the iron bonds common to verse and to life. Craftsman and man 
to the end was Baron Vane. 

Perhaps it is better after all that these crude drums may beat the 
muffled prelude for the living lyre, and that this outer darkness may 
introduce you the better by contrast to Baron Vane, "Across The 
Threshold." 

Charles Sydney Barrett, M.A., Ph.D., 
Associate professor of English Literature, 
Research professor of Chaldean Literature, 
Holder of the Golden Chair of Belles Lettres. 



Table of Contents. 

Admonition 107 

Answer 131 

Antony to Cleopatra 67 

Apologetics 18 

Appreciation 108 

Baba 125 

Ballad 98 

Ballad of Long John Silver, The 92 

Ballad of The Gentle Troubador, The 101 

Betrothed, The 62 

"Billy" Sunday 42 

Birth of Psyche, The 46 

But Now Face To Face 138 

Christians, The 90 

Confessional 72 

Confession of Inability 96 

Curse 79 

Deutschland 1914 23 

Dialogue 80 

Discourse Ill 

"Each One Knows" 84 

Edgar Allan Poe 112 

Educational Film, An 115 

England 24 

Free Lover on tlie Relation of the Sexes, The 129 

Fruition 93 

Fulfillment of Life, The 73 

"Give Us Barabbas !" 64 

Glory of War, The 25 

Greek Fire 22 

Grief 139 

Henry George 113 

2 13 



14 CONTENTS. 

Hobgoblin of Little Minds, The 126 

Hobo 34 

Immutability 87 

In Confidence 91 

Inevitable Question, The 124 

Jitney Poet, The 86 

L'amour et L'amour 70 

Leech up to date, The 60 

Light on Shadows 121 

Little Excommunicator, The 132 

Loquitur Opus 20 

Lost Savor, 'ihe 125 

Lovelorn Poet, The 99 

Love Note, The 89 

Manhood 97 

Momentary Awakening, A 61 

"My Body a Living Sacrifice" 26 

Nature Fakir, The 114 

One Laughs That One May Not Weep 128 

One Man's Meat 140 

On Further Armament 32 

Our Duty as Neutrals 122 

Passage of the Unshriven, The 36 

Poem of Passion 71 

Poet at The Threshold, The 74 

Proclamation 135 

Punishment of Cupid, The 58 

Pygmalion and I 39 

Eank and File 117 

Repudiation 44 

Retrospect 56 

Revelation, Book 13 : 23 133 

Revenge of the Atheist, The 66 

Rosemary for Remembrance 38 

Rupert Brooke 65 

Sacred and Profane, The 127 

Scandinavia 27 



CONTENTS. 15 

Scarlet Woman, The 19 

Self Conscious 82 

Self Slain 57 

Sight Unseen 137 

Snowfall in New York City, A 41 

"Some Mute Inglorious Milton" 17 

Spinner and the Shears of Atropos, The 28 

Symbol 88 

Teneriffe 68 

Testament 136 

Thoughts on Seeing Mont Blanc 116 

Timon 37 

'Tis Only In the Night We See the Stars 63 

To 110 

To a Child Bride 69 

To All of You 35 

To Critics 119 

To Elegists 120 

To Magdalene 134 

To The Player 100 

To Those Who Would Asperse our Position 33 

To Those Whom It May Concern 31 

Traitor Lock, The 85 

True Caste 78 

Tweedledum and Tweedledee 29 

Two Poets, The 43 

Undine 21 

Unknown God, The (Fragment) 141 

War 147 

Washington and The Anarchist 123 

Weakling, The 109 

White Queen's Cloak, The 30 

Works Without Faith 94 

Wright Brothers 40 



Across the Threshold 



"Some Mute, Inglorious Milton." 

An earthworm, roused from out the porous sod 

By sudden, summer shower, then clearing skies ; 

Is tramped for half its length and wounded lies, 
Stamped deep into the sodden, muddy clod. 
Through all the simple ganglia, the prod 

Of crushing agony ; and ere it dies 

Strives to express it's pain, to it of size 
Which were no more, each inch a thousand odd. 
But held with grim and unrelaxed compress 

Of muck ; deaf, dumb, blind, in the unknowing street, 

And trodden yet again by careless feet, 
Given not e'en to writhe. Poor, mute distress ! 

Ah ! such am I, I feel ecstatic beat 

Thrill through my whole poor soul — and yet — voiceless ! 



17 



18 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Apologetics. 

"Why boast or weep in public?" cry the most 
Who cannot comprehend our life and aim, 
Nor understand the fires that we would tame, 
And bend to be of service to the host. 

"Why artificial song? Why opened heart?" 

W^hen Christ Himself was bartered by your herds, 
May we not coin our poor selves into words, 
And hawk our slenderer worth in open mart? 

"Why publish forth your soul in common word?" 

And would'st thou have in vain our blood and tears, 
Our agony and sweat, harsh weary years? 
Of what avail were singing were't not heard? 

"We sell ourselves and our ideals for cash?" 

Ah well, lay on, dull fools, our strength will bear. 
E'en as the harnessed brutes stretch sinews there, 
The hardest toiler gets the sharpest lash ! 



BARON VANB. 19 



The Scarlet Woman. 

Red hair, hair glorious, 

Alluring tendrils peeping ; 
Red lips, delirious lips. 

In which hot passion's sleeping ; 
Red cheeks, through which full cheeks, 

The ardent blood seems leaping ; 
And then — look close — red eyes. 

Eyes red from much of weeping. 



20 _ ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Loquitur Opus. 

Bright Day and somber Xiglit were seated ouce, 
Where Master's brush and palette idle lay. 

Day thought the Night a rather sober dunce, 
Who never stooped to join her merry play. 

So dared him to a trial, won the toss, 

Seized brush, and on the canvas there at hand 

And with a glowing beauty drew across 

Its smooth extent the sunset, still and grand. 

Then dropped the tools and -midst the evening hush 

Went, confident of laurels surely won. 
And, pondering in his turn. Night took the brush 

And with quick, splendid strokes produced the dawn. 

The Painter came to find his craft essayed, 
Nor did He blast presumption by His frown, 

Nor ever did He judge the works they made ; 
Yet ever since the stars are in Night's crown. 



BARON VANB. 21 



Undine. 

From heat and pain I ever seek thy cool, 
Great eyes, each one a deep and somber pool, 
That rest my soul within their quiet deeps — 
Ah, Sweet, the soothing calm that in them sleeps. 

But ah, when depths are stirred, cloud lashes dim — 
No wonder, water-witch, my senses swim ! 



22 ACROSS THE TPIKESHOLD. 



Greek Fire! 

Ah, Psyche Love, if I should die before 
I ever press your slender linger tips. 
And loose the flame that seethes behind my lips, 

And had now soon all my faint heart o'er-bore ; 

If I should die ere pouring forth the store 
Of all that heart's rich fullness ; and eclipse 
With my clay loss the spirit lire which dips 

Into that dusky Lethe — yet still more 

Shall love of thee consume me, as with lire. 

Burned dry and dryer with the pulsing flame. 

More fierce than e'en that turgid wave could tame 
More soft in spite than gently fingered lyre — 

My ashes strew them at your threshold's street, 

And every time you pass they kiss your feet ! 



BARON VANE. 23 



Deutschland, 1914. 

Oh thou wert like the ocean, great and strong! 

Uncharted deeps and gentle quiet shoals, 

The mighty Goethe as the tide deep rolls, 
The gentle Heine with his wavelet song 
That sparkled in the sunbeams all day long ; 

Thy all united power of kindred souls ! 

The sun itself drew from thee generous doles 
And spread lif egiving dews all earth among ! 

Ah thou art like the sea, the crafty sea, 
That even while it lavishes caresses 
With smooth fond billows on the friendly shore 
Doth slip away the sand so stealthily ; 
And when o'erpowered by storm of rage confesses 
Its deadly hate, and strikes with frenzied roar ! 



24 ACROSS THE TIIRESUOLD. 



England, 1914. 

Oh thou whom Freedom early leiinied to fear 
Be humbler in this hour of sore distress, 
If when you now shout forth your rigliteousness, 

Who once rejoiced at every patriot's bier — 

Be not surprised if we in turn should sneer 
At seeing lion in a lambkin's dress. 
Who taught us lirst what means a king's caress. 

Shrink ye not back with retribution near ! 

The ruined peoples — once unheard their moan! 
All stand grim ghosts that clog you in this day 
And what avails if hands are clean? They say, 
"Unto the third and fourth !" And when you rage 
At reaping harvest by your hands not sown, 

Think of the unborn — their fearful heritage ! 



BARON VANE. 25 



The Glory of War. 

'^Ogni ^onore' lasciate, vol ch^entrate." — Guerra! 

How wrong they say is war, and then they paint 
A man all fouled with gin and blood and sweat, 
A babe spit on a reeking bayonet, 

A woman ravished as she falls in faint ; 

Or hideous breeze that carries far the taint 
Of sodden flesh where maggot breeds beget, 
Hung stiff-legged on barbed wire — the list forget; 

The ruined church and school, the o'erturned saint. 

For is there need to cite one-tenth so much? 
These cases dull. We hear ten thousand such. 
Embrace all war's cold loathing at one time ; 
Paint but Italia plunging through the slime, 
With "honor," "flag," and like shams empty found, 
To strike — a bargain — with her foe well bound ! 



26 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



"My Body A Living Sacrifice." 

Once, before a glowing fire, 

Ape and feline jointly sat. 

Chestnuts toasting ; said the cat, 
"Give to me your paw for hire. 
Snatch our chestnuts from the flare 
You shall have an equal share !" 

Ape, or fool or much too good. 

Burned his paws to give each food. 

Bring the story up to date 

Change brutes to the rank of state. 

Cat is of the lion shape. 

True man is a godlike ape ! 

Two giant forms stood at the judgment seat, 
One proudly and one liumbl}' ; as the King 
With august tone, "What honors do ye bring? 

What records of great deeds ; as must be meet?" 

And then proud England confident of feat. 

Threw back her cloak ; a medalled breast did sing 
Such praises ; "Mistress of the Seas'' ; each thing ; 

"Reft neutral mails." "Safe plunder with huge fleet." 

Nor spake the King, but turned he to the pale 

And bent worn figure ; loath it seemed to unveil. 

Divine hand, fearing sham, tore off the vest — 

Sans gauds, sans mail ; France bared her bleeding breast ! 

Two giant forms stood jointly at the bar, 

And on the crest of one there shone a star ! 



BARON VANE. 27 



Scandinavia. 

Coldly his blue eyes stare along the main, 

Where hot south winds have strewn a poison seed 
Of dragon's teeth, reaped by an iron steed 

Of sinewless machines that thresh man grain ; 

And those stern, viking hands from strife restrain. 
Grim eagle eyes that see a stranger breed 
Burrowed in holes, ships bound with sullen weed ; 

He leans upon his ashen spear again. 

Not such the mad brave battle as he knew. 

When fierce bold fleet beat through an unknown spray ; 
Or when the Northern Lion led his crew 

In nobler strife: not slain ten miles away 
In graves self dug. Unmoved, with cold blue stare, 
He keeps his border line from Pruss and Bear. 



28 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Spinner and the Shears of Atropos. 

Oh wake ! Cohimbia ! At thy western gate, 
A yellow horde awaits thy deeper sleep ! 
And through the southern lands the minions creep 

To bring thy proud head to a craven's fate ! 

Oh wake ! Columbia ! At thine eastern gate, 
On straining leash, the menace of the deep 
Awaits the word at thy bared side to leap ; 

And on thy virgin self his lust to sate ! 

And yet full calmly does she sit and weave 

A silken cover for her downy couch, 
Where safely does she rest ; nor will believe 

The warning of the hordes that near her crouch! 
Oh wake ! Columbia ! Raise thy crest so proud, 
Ere vet that silken robe shall be thv shroud ! 



BAEON VANE. 29 



Tweedledum and Tweedledee. 

Tweedledum and Tweedledee 
Fought for naught right merrily. 
For what had been a nice new rattle — 
Now smashed the toy — the twins did battle : 
Piled motley arms, then blow on blow, 
Till they saw the frightful crow; 
Then broke up the scrap and beat it ! 
These would kill the crow, and eat it ! 

Hapsburg aud Romanoff, two doughty knights, 
Although in semblance of Quixote framed — 
Scarce has each one his gangling members tamed — 

Engaged each other ; and each fiercely fights, 

With sword and mace, for crushed toy — fancied slights, 
To beat his fellow down : until, well shamed, 
He rights the dreadful wrong for which he's blamed : 

And both with zeal do waste their separate mights. 

For each has visor locked, his brow concealed, 

And in the bright face of the other's shield 

Each sees himself ; and strikes with furious might, 

To blot forever such a hideous sight ! 

Oh learn, sick giants, ere a fatal blow, 

Your own poor self is your most deadly foe ! 



30 ACEOSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The White Queen's Cloak. 

Here too the warning comes in somber tone, 

Fierce mnrmurs of the storm ; the quivering earth 
Racked to her entrails with aborted birth ! 

Up to the hollow vault in red wind blown 

The gale swift rushes, bearing dying moan. 
The souls of millions of thy sons' dear worth — 
Wild rings thy daughters' mad hysteric mirth, 

Crazed by their fearful gifts of blood and bone ! 

The wind thus sown must reap usurious gain, 
The whirlwind howls its fury 'midst blood rain ! 
Oh hear ye not the dreadful menace grow 
And swell in chorus as the hell wiuds blow? 
Seest not those raven wings in yon black cloud, 
The White Queen's cloak — the menace of a shroud? 



BARON VANE. 31 



To Those Whom It May Concern. 

We are a simple people, and you sneer, 
You wily nations, at our ignorant youth, 
Cocksure, too fond of gold ; and yet, forsooth ; 
What vices have we which you hold not dear? 
And too, meseems, our virtues are as clear, 
To gaze that seeks for honesty and truth : 
We house no guns nor spies in traders' booth ; 
No lip diplomacy ; no fair, false leer, 
With hand on dagger hilt ; no cloaked design. 
With staggering armaments : what's thine is thine ! 

No underhanded dealings as you like. 
Our sturdy fathers knew. The same flag we — 
Crouched rattler, pregnant words, "Don't tread on me." 
The courteous warning, and the deadly strike ! 



32 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



On Further Armament. 

They seek to arm the eagle with steel spur, 
And iron beak, and set him at a foe 
Of his own making ; he to strike the blow, 
For any cause they may to him refer ; 
Who knows not Aviiieh the right. When buzzards were 
Wild fighting — They the eagle's power know — 
Each sought his aid ; nor did the proud one go. 
But scornful watched the quarrel from his fir. 
And maddened by his sneer did every bird 
Launch at him, unsuspecting and unstirred 
By any fear, and wound the unready king; 
Who sought his rocky heights beyond their wing, 
Recouped his mangled strength, and with fierce sweep 
Attacked, exultant — Yonder do they sleep ! 



BARON VANE. 33 



To Those Who Would Asperse Our Position. 

Columbia stands aloof, yet of her bread 
And generous store is bounty freely given, 
To stricken lands. Nor shall our men be riven, 

From gentler arts, to make — and join — the dead. 

Nor shall we school our youth to see in red 
And bloody haze our colors' glory driven, 
Through battle smoke that shuts out all of heaven ; 

When each land boasts us kin, "Neutral !" we said ! 
Fulfill those covert threats ! Attack ! And find. 
Our puerile forces shattered ; yet behind 
Each dear-lost trench stern, ever-forming lines, 
Unto the frowning rocks. There from our mines. 
We forge new steel ; again the lightnings rain ; 
And swift the dreadful vengeance ! Read us plain ! 



34 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Hobo. 

The speeding train is mad, 
The swaying coaches rock 
With sudden jerk and shock, 

And I am wholly sad ; 

As slow the minutes steal, 

And swift the train. 

And see that slender chain 
Behind each wheel, 
Unreel, unreel, unreel ! 

The quiet night outside 

Is dark, save phantom gleams 
Like visions or wild dreams. 

Or like the nightmare's ride. 
No entire sight is got, 

Each station past does flit. 

While mournfully I sit, 

And strange each transient spot. 
Unreal, unreal, unreal ! 

I know not where I go, 

Into a stranger's land ; 

I do not understand 
This semi state of woe; 

This weird, half slum'brous dart 
Through blank and weary place 
Brings shadows to my face. 

The tracks, as beats my heart. 
Unreel, unreel, unreel ! 

My life has ever flown 

With such dull haunted gleam. 
Not as on sparkling stream 

But as the creak and groan 
Of straining wheel and bar; 



BARON VANE. 35 



Jerk, — rattle, — flickering light- 
A lantern flash, — then night — 
Life in my cattle car — 
Unreal, unreal, unreal ! 

Both journeys Avhich I make 
Are vague and dull, and pall 
As on my soul they fall ; 

Yet never do I shake. 

Ahead some, certain aim; 

Careless of jolt or jar, 

Locked in my cattle car, 
I challenging exclaim, 
"Unreel, unreal, unreel!'' 



To All of You. 

Absent thou art! Ah! dull the words and dead. 
Though fervently breathed forth, warm from my heart ! 
How, love, could I express me more? 
Absent thou art ! 

Absent thou art ! Could every inward tear, 
Each look expectant, dear, each sudden start 
Be better told than in this sullen phrase, 
Absent thou art ! 

Absent thou art ! Ah were it otherwise. 
Then could I, too, act well my other part ; 
Endure all ills — not this that strikes the heart — 
Absent thou art ! 



36 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Passage of the Unshriven. 

Ah, that weary quavered song, 
All the world's eternal wrong- 
Has been pressed in that sad aching, 
Dull, as if a heart were breaking, 
Yet contained its beat too long. 
Beating sad refrain too long. 

Ah, that mournful, trembled plaint. 
All the world's dark, bitter taint 
Throngs its every reedy throating. 
As if funeral barge were floating 
In the rushes, wind moved faint, 
Phantom oarsmen chanting faint. 

Dirge or anthem be ye still 
Heart, Oh heart, list to my will ! 

Cease your mad and painful beating. 
Hinted prelude to tliat meeting ! 
All my brain with craze you fill, 
All my brain is crazed with ill ! 

But my calls no answer find 

But the tearful, dripping wind, 

Wind through lonely marshes fluting. 
Eerie shadow music muting, 

Chording echoes left behind. 

Echoes better left behind. 

Ah, when two from One divide 

Better far that One had died. 
Will it never cease, this fretting. 
Till the last full sail is setting 

After her along the tide? 

Wind blow out along the tide ! 



BARON VANE. 37 



Leave the reeds their gentle croon 

In the dimly veiled lagoon, 

Leave the winds around me blowing 
Their weird murmurs, tide is flowing, 

Wan and pale the clouded moon. 

Haunting farewell cry of loon ! 

As I bear out on the tide 

Strike your lay as if for bride ; 
Pipe, ye reeds, in jocund thrilling. 
Air and waves with rapture filling. 

Waves that bear me to her side. 

Bear me gently to her side ! 



Timon. 

Better were calm classing done, 
Ere would hot wrath us smother 



All men within two classes run ; 

Those who think earth their mother. 
Who slave and sweat for others' fun; 

And those who live off brother. 



I pity and despise the one, 
Scorn and despise the other. 



38 ACROSS THE THUE^JIIOLD. 



Rosemary for Remembrance. 

He shone above me like the sun at morn 
In brilliant glory; fresh from dewy bed, 

I greeted him ; I seemed with life reborn 
With his first kiss, that all my being led 

Through fiery paths to ecstasy, ^mkno^yn 

Before his dawning : I was all his own ! 

But who was I, to mate with such as he? 

He loved me through till eve ; with his noon heat, 
Too strong for my poor verdure, finally 

Left drooping blossoms dying at his feet. 
And yet in his life's book for aye engage 
My dry-pressed, withered leaves that single page ! 



r.ARON VANE. 39 



Pygmalion and I. 

A love so great as to transform to flesh ! 

The sullen marble dimpling at the touch 

Of the skilled reverent hands which cherished much. 
Their own creation did the heart enmesh 
His hands must give it life for hot heart's wish, 

His hands heart's dream made true, his art was such ; 

Else would those cold white hands 'round his heart clutch 
And still the flood that did these hands refresh ! 

A love so great as to transform to stone ! 

The fingers chilling as they touch mine own. 
She will not love, she will not set me free, 
Fresh-carved Galatea was more kind than she, 

For does my face but press to touch her own, 

And I might be Medusa — she is stone ! 



40 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Wright Brothers. 

Few men approach divine in this, our life, 
A pnrple heaven with their fortune starred 
Against the dark. And yet is it so hard 
To rise e'en when oppressed bj' desperate strife, 
With temporal great who tnrn an envious knife? 

By their worst curse more men are made than marred. 
Great foes ennoble. But to keep wrath barred 
When neighbors sneer and yokels' wit is rife ; 
With grim calm patient toil to bear abuse 
Of boors, without reply ; e'en turn 't to use ! 
One pair there was who took from these stale lungs 
The empty vapor which supplied their tongues, 

And with great planes that rose on such scant things 
Gave fools their answer and gave Man bird-wings ! 



BARON VANE. 41 



Self-slain. 

You curse me, you and you, you turn your eyes. 
And bid them thrust me on the refuse heap ; 
But envy me how peacefully I sleep, 

And view my calm still features with surprise. 
"He did not play the game," prate out the wise — 
Ah ! I played it too well. I played to keep 
The game straight fair and clean ! No furtive peep 

At careless brother's hand ! No f rauded prize ! 
The decks were stacked as ever, e'en by friend ; 
My store of chips soon found their ref ted end ; 

Mine honor would not borrow — I might lose 

Another man's hard garner — so I choose 

To rise from game. And you who still play on. 
By what foul cunning knavery have you won? 



42 ACEOSS THE THEESHOLD. 



"Billy" Sunday. 

Commercialize the common fear of fire, 

And hope for jeweled seats, and every lure 

That dull sense can conceive ; wring from the poor 
Their hard earned coppers ; to the wealthy hire 
A voice that bawls submission to the mire 

For those who else might rise. Oh cursed boor! 

Oh Judas damned, to sell Christ's clay were pure — 
This sells His soul to pile his gold the higher ! 

We cannot punish you, we wish free speech ; 

Both press and pulpit praise a fellow-leech ; 
Our reason cannot fight 'gainst blind belief: 
No law or hope there is for such a thief. 
"Rather a camel through a needle's eye!" 

I pray there be a hell when such shall die ! 



BARON VANE. 43 



The Two Poets. 

A strip of carpet on the floor, 
The poor oft-trodden floor, 

Of a dark, single-windowed room. 
That muddy burden bore 

And clouded e'er in gloom. 

Sprang from a better loom 
Than did the curtain shaken by the breeze 
With dainty visionings of flowers and trees 

Outside and e'en the skies. 
So is my fashionings' unease 

Toilworn nor sees the prize, 
As the gay curtain. Yet the question lies, 

Not of the station and the lace it wears 

But this — How much and well the fabric bears? 
And I in my low place, threadbare and rent. 
Grudge not the sight nor breeze but am content. 



44 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD, 



Repudiation. 

Come, Esau, here's a banquet for you spread, 

A pottage far beyond your humble own, 
A million men now sentenced, and soon dead. 

The seed for batt'ning harvest now is sown ; 

Soon is the reaping, and soon hell fires' heat 

Will broil the monstrous mixture through and through- 
Come, ye of kindred stripe, your masters meet ! 
In this vast abattoir there's room for you. 

Come, Brother Esau, on these gentles look, 

Upon thy counterparts of noble mold. 
The men who brothers' birthright calmly took ; 

What was not theirs, for self-good to be sold. 

You, in a moment of distress made sore 

By labor, sold a thing of vague-thought fame, 

To scurvy brother, who himself forswore 
To capture a false birthright and false name. 

The trivial harm you did struck at yourself ; 

Left you were virile manhood and earth's hoard ; 
Your brother prospered ; you gained power and pelf — 

Come Esau, back to life and sit at board. 

Come, Fiji, with your taste for human kind, 

To fill a hunger or avenge an ill ; 
Sit at the table — honored seat you'll find — 

Come, help these cannibals their guts to fill. 

Y''ou matched your strength and skill with equal foe, 

In equal hazard, and with equal arm ; 
Now come and sit with those who better know, 

Who kill their brothers, with selves safe from harm. 



BARON VANE. 45 

Here's pottage of fine flesh and warm, rich blood — 
The race's birthright buys it ; not their own ! 

Here, safe from any danger on the flood, 

Or in the trench, they gorge on fellow's bone. 

Their fat, stuffed bellies shine, with plenty filled ; 

A thousand miles from peril, with their gold ; 
While thousands of their brethren there are killed, 

Unknowing of the birthright blackly sold. 

Each dead man means a hundred dollar bill ; 

Each war, fat contracts got by trick and fraud ; 
Each brother slain, sweet chinking in the till ; 

Each change of notes, a ribbon or a gaud ; 

Each clash of men, more news for mangy press ; 

Each sobbing woman, feature for a day ; 
A moment's headline in a scarlet dress. 

For those long, silent mounds can fitly pay ! 

Not for real hunger, or for vengeance sweet ; 

But for the asses' wish for asses' power, 
Or for more figures sprawled across a sheet ; 

They kill the race's finest root and flower ! 

Come dine ! famed twain, and see yourselves out-done ! 

See men eat men with relish and with smile ! 
Ten million brothers sold in place of one ! 

Blush not to see the past out-done in guile ! 

Why do ye turn, ye couple, and grow wan ? 

Why sit ye not at such a glorious feast? 
What fiercely sayest Esau? "I am Man !" 

And dusky fellow? "I am not a Beast !" 



46 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Birth of Psyche. 

Ah, thou art cruel, my Love, as cruel as fair, 

As heartless — No, Avithout one you would die! 

And yet your glance grows colder when I sigh 
With that cool gaze as if you did not care. 
Ah, speak me kindly, Love, my passion share, 

Smile softly. Lips, and gentler grow your eye ; 

Lest haply mine some day should not reply, 
Lest haply funeral garments you should wear. 

Pandora and her consort, left alone 
By gods relenting, peopled all the earth 
In such a fashion ; rocks of llinty worth 
They threw across their shoulders, flesh and bone 
Sprang up around. Of such art thou, my Own, 
Well covered by sweet flesh — thy heart still stone ! 



BARON VANE. 47 

War! 

''Fiir Gott iiud fiir Mich !" See God's images come ! 

The form of a god and his brain under thumb 

Of the owner of lamp, whose bright light should so shine 

As to lead on the hosts in a glorious line 

To the goal that e'er beckons^ — and yet its sick beams 

Only shine in their eyes with such dazzling streams, 

As to blind them and throw them there, man against man ; 

While Nature and Sickness and Death smite the clan. 

Too foolish to join and to fight their own foes, 

And eager to come to the trial by blows, 

As to who is the greatest in brute strength and guile — 

Oh, how those who follow, e'en cursing us, smile 

At the thought of the States, who prove themselves great, 

Sink to lower than brute and with fellow blood sate ; 

When they might have matched works of such ponderous 

size, 
As to crowd the lean earth and endanger the skies ; 
Or by raising up mortals to Men ; and then strive 
In a battle that leaves all the vanquished alive. 
In a generous moil to see who would be chief 
In advancing gTeat things for poor mankind's relief 
From the burdens which press us, too much without war — 
Look back on the terrible weight that we bore ; 
Our vileness and ignorance, baseness and lust, 
Almost as the beast, and now farther back thrust, 
By the handful of leaders who seek their own fame — 
Ah, if men were but men, we'd attach you a name ! 

But when fools led by dolts pray to deified fool, 
Such disasters must come under regular rule. 
For the blind men refuse to lift hand for their own, 
Every brother who helps them they viciously stone. 
Every bond that is shattered they shriek at its fall — 
Ah, the harsh, unthanked labor, and yet. Ah, the call ! 
The hysteric mad turmoil, the horrid fixed round. 
The life scarce more free than its end in the ground ! 



48 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

They call themselves men, and they boast of their souls ; 
Yet they see not as far as the scarce lower moles, 
Who crawl in their trenches, shut out from the light, 
And desire no more pleasure than fiercely to fight 
To the last bitter breath any brothers who come. 

Oh, the slaves to the ring and the slaves to the drum, 

The glitter of ring, and the roll of the drum, 

The lamp of dead gold, and the ring of swine blood, 

Bred carefully out of the generous flood, 

That throbs through the race ; and bursts out now and then, 

In the wise and the great and the God among men. 

These powerful Genii, Masters of life, 

These owners of souls, and producers of life ; 

Yet bound hj a bauble to weak, mortal hands, 

And bound by the rattle of childish commands. 

And bound by the blind, selfish love for their lands. 

Each one for himself, for his lands and his gold ; 

Each one strives and fights until life has grown cold ; 

The ones with their hands full kick down all the rest, 

The ones empty handed hope soon to be blest, 

And won't change the rules of the damnable game ; 

The rich men and poor men, all dastards the same; 

All wasting the vigor and hope of the Race, 

All clinging to empty and horrible chase : 

Held in a foolish and terrible strife. 

Mighty God's strength with all energy rife; 

Bound by a fool to the plaint of a fife, 

Called by the roll of a puerile drum — 

"Fiir Gott und fiir Mich !" See the blind ox strength come ! 

"For king and for country !" How empty the sound ! 
For a poor puppet throne, and a dull plot of ground. 
What on earth can men see in a vague border line, 
That can strip wrong from murder, and render it fine? 



BARON VANE. 49 

Ah, prate of fools' honor and threaten with shame, 
And the wisest professor and fool are the same ; 
And take up a ribbon, and medal, and such. 
And rewarded with that, the fools think it too much. 



There is in our own land the same boasting kind, 
Voice alone in his head, gone his remnant of mind. 
One who bawls that our honor is all overgrown. 
Ah, what do we say of his proud manhood's own? 
He froths for a war that will bring him the chance 
To prove his own glory ; he frantically pants 
For a chance to show forth to the worshipping world, 
How his chest can hold crosses with war flag unfurled ; 
How he can lead men, a Napoleon himself, 
Whom the men long ago laid far back on the shelf. 

And so are they all — all press agents their own. 

That their poor, sick mock-greatness can widely be shown, 

They fume to be heralded wide to the masses. 

And with nothing to back them appear but as asses ! 

"My people," they say, and "My country and God !" 

When their proper profession is carrying a hod. 

They want to be ticketed, labelled, and so, 

That the world may fall down as before it they go. 

And they cannot perceive how the real men must laugh 

At the poor rustic show ; as some blue blooded calf. 

With his ribbons attached — but more merit to him. 

Content to be praised for an excellent limb, 

And having no mind does not seek to attain 

To the heights yet unreached by a brute without brain. 

A bit of dull iron, and a bright ribbon red, 
That testify well to a brain that's long dead — 
"A brave man who leaves brothers under the sod," 
Signed, sealed, and attested — The Kaiser and God ! 



50 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

A cross and a ribbon, expanded the chest, 
And, why is he great? "Oh, this one of the blest. 
Has torn fellowmeu, and left naught but a thing" — 
Signed, sealed, and attested — Your country and King. 

We have the same badge in our own apish land, 
"Here is a brave man here a hero doth stand," 
Says the medal attached to the chest of a clod — 
Signed, sealed, and attested — Carnegie and God ! 

And they cling to these childish and puerile things, 

And court the sick praise that they think that it brings; 

The ribbons and medals and collars, much prized — 

Yet why must a hero be loud advertised? 

'Tis considered by every one bad form to boast. 

Of connections, et cetera, self quite the most ; 

Yet they stick to their livery, ribbons and all, 

And forth to the world their own emptiness bawl. 

And to men who know truth from the rest of the maze, 

A tribute they get markedly dilferent from praise; 

A smile at their childishness, laugh at the sight — 

And then a half groan at the young minds they blight. 

A savage hangs claptrap and junk on his form 

And tattoos himself; women partly conform 

With their steels and their glitters ; the great man is next. 

Who with titles and ribbons and medals is vexed. 

And lastly are we, cleaving close to the true, 

Satisfied if we work, if we find something new, 

Something good for the race and our inner content ; 

All untouched by applause, even though it be meant 

As true praise, by our fellows; the work is the thing; 

After that even dulled is the glory they bring. 

For Science alone can be king among us, 
What in kind with pure reason have feathers and fuss? 
By brain strength alone are we held from the beast, 
Yet on brutish attainments our people must feast. 
Knowledge only can raise us to Masters and Might, 



BARON VANE. 51 

Pure mind only can grant us a vision of light. 
And yet they sink back to the child and the brute, 
And jam their thick gullets with unwholesome fruit. 
The beast cannot lead us, the child cannot guide ; 
And yet how they list to the doctrines beside. 

The only true leaders are Genius and Toil, 
The only step up from the caldrons that boil, 
Our hope and our future, our strength and our stay ; 
Yet scarce have we built till they strike it away. 

For we are so few and our efforts are weak 
Beside the vast body who self good do seek. 
Look at all who advise our own land to prepare. 
They all ( by some chance ) in the dividends share ; 
They all have plump hands in the loaded jack-pot, 
And not the least danger of e'er being shot : 
For the hounds who bark loud to put men in a trench, 
Will all be long leagues from its sickening stench. 
And the most of the newspapers howl, snort and bray 
Everything their dull owners desire them to say ; 
They play up the news and arouse the dense brain 
To demand darker tints than their yellow sheets stain. 
Though the people protest, yet the newspaper lies 
Would have you believe that their lust is of size 
That o'ershadows all else — Oh, the damnable knaves. 
The sordid muck flingers, who dig others' graves. 

They froth after power and froth after fame. 
Content if their press agent loads them with shame ; 
Unable to gain true renown by deserves. 
Or by toil which mankind's strength and progress pre- 
serves ; 
They seek notoriety — Diplomats, kings, 
Presidents, governors, asinine things ! 
Masters of money, and lords of the press. 
Asses in lions' skins (flimsy the dress) . 
All of our leaders are donkeys, and worse; 



52 ACllOSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Quadrupeds drawing a horrible hearse ! 
They point to their records as proof of their work, 
All the scant good of which has been done by a clerk ; 
By a poorly-paid fool, robbed of toil and of praise, 
That's gone with its mockery, his master to raise. 

They bawl loud, ^'Prepare ! Not to fight, but to keep 
Other people from fighting." Oh, minds fast asleep ! 
Were there ever blind fools given torch and a sword. 
But the buildings were burned in which Knowledge was 

stored ; 
And great old Archimedes in study, at toil. 
Struck down by a drunkard : and lost in the moil 
More of gain for mankind, more of freedom from ill, 
Than their minds can conceive — For vou hear them howl 

still! 

For men are not old enough yet to have arms ; 

Give baby a hatchet and see whom it harms ! 

We must keep thom away from the dear, childish people, 

As long as they flock to their barn topped by steeple. 

To list to a jackanapes bawl of a Lord, 

Who has picked out liis chosen — for others the sword. 

Oh, when will they learn to throw refuse away. 
Burst out stained glass windows, and let in the Day ; 
Turn out knaves, kings, gods, and their empty-skulled 

train, 
And turn to the men who have genius and brain? 

They shout of democracy — kneel to an ass ! 
They shout fellowman — and then kill him for brass ! 
They worship a dunce with his gold cap and stool. 
And the toiling inventor they title a fool ! 

Yet we toil on in spite of your frown and your jeer. 

Your stones and your gaol, the unflowered bier ; 

For the sake of the children crushed down in your mold. 



BARON VANB. 53 

For the sake of the few who refuse to grow old ; 

For Youth aud its dreams, and for Learning, our God — 

And we smile at your praise, and we laugh at your rod. 

War, batter, destroy yourselves, follow the scum ! 

Follow the lamp, aud the ring, and the drum ! 

Drag your lean bellies as flat as you can, 

Prostrate yourselves to the shell of a man ! 

Foam at the mouth when we strike at your chains ! 

Sink your germed teeth in us, deep, for our pains ! 

Kiot aud lust in your bestial sties ! 

Stuff on your offal, and howl at the skies ! 

Koll in your horrible, endless brute life. 

Envy and jealousy, madness and strife ! 

Choose your own beds in the filth of the world ! 

Hold to the gods we would see overhurled ! 

Gorge as you will from the lees of the cup ; 

But keep your vile hands *rom the youth that springs up ! 

That is our lifework, our guide, and our aim, 
To keep the strong children from being the same. 
You are so brutish, your life is sucked clean ; 
Naught but a husk Death soon claims with his lien. 
Thank him for that, and heap honor and praise — 
Ne'er from the grave will your corpses he raise — 
Dead, rotted, gone ! While our work flowers on ! 
Dead, rotted, gone ! Then our victory's won ! 

We work for youth, with its mind free from taint. 
Taught to bow not to knave, godling, or saint ; 
Taught but to sit at the feet of the great, 
Taught to drink Learning and Truth at the gate, 
Before which we sit ; till some Master shall rise, 
And throw back the portal to fellowmen's eyes — 
Fellowmen's? Yes ! We shall breed us true men. 
Beside which dead gods were neglected again. 
We must depend on true men — not on gods ! 
We must depend on us men — not on clods ! 



54 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Gods give us wars, and the clods give us peace ; 

So close, one can scarcely define which did cease 

And which did begin ; such the deadly turmoil. 

In which men are thrust, hopeless, harshly to toil 

For vain foolish things ; pyramids, monuments, 

For taxes and interests, tithes, and laud rents ; 

For naught but support of superior knaves — 

They fought to be free ! Did we fight to be slaves? 

All of the might for the Race's advance, 

Left to a slipshod and devilish chance ; 

All of the power that might the earth raise, 

Turned into useless and devious ways ; 

All of the glory and light of the Race, 

Keeps lap-men and women in soft easy place ! 

While the common herd sweats, groans and struggles again, 

Brute beasts forgetting they ever were men ! 

Ah, could the half of the misery be shown? 

Half the girl's weeping, and half the nmn's groan — 

But you know it all now, why the waste of my time, 
To put your ass-eulogy in bastard rhyme? 
Think as you will ( I mean, think not at all !) 
Laugh your loud laugh at the truths that we call ; 
Shout 3'our grim verdict, and strike your best blows ; 
In soil of such culture our axiom grows — 
Grows into minds, and when once it is there. 
Only can Death ever that and mind share ! 

As for the herd, we must let them rave on, 
Weather their rage till the vain storm is gone. 
What if our State wars, and silent our breath ; 
Was ever Truth ever silenced by Death? 
Emptiness dies, and once dead, is all lost. 
Bound in its grave clothes (and huge was their cost!) 
Dead there forever ! But Truth is ne'er laid 
Under the ground in a permanent shade. 



BARON VANE. 55 



Dead in the grave yard. 'Tis but planted deep, 
For a short space, as the seedling, in sleep ; 
The deeper the planting, the deeper the root. 
And Ah, at the harvest, the size of the fruit ! 

Rave, ye mad waves, at the lone, tiny isle. 

Our small retreat from your rage and damned guile ! 

Beat at the work, and submerge it in blood ! 

Beat at the work, overwhelm with your flood ! 

Soon shall come men who bind rock with steel chain, 

Soon shall come men of a more brilliant brain, 

Soon shall a lighthouse stand where fall our bones, 

When your mad waves lose themselves on firm stones ! 

Soon shall the glory of mind light across. 

Guarding the stately ship, fearless of loss ! 

Then dredge the crafty shoal free from your cause. 

Free from the torment of devilish laws, 

Laws that create you, and drive your small forms 

Into the semblance of world moving storms. 

Shoal once out dredged and the channel swept clear. 

Into the deep all the nations shall steer ; 

There where Man's genius burns high flaming ray ; 

There where Man's toil has marked out the broad way ! 

All of the glory, and all of god life 
All of that freedom from mad, senseless strife 
Spirit our hands, and our loins, and our brain ! 
Keep us all free from the dark, hellish stain. 
We ask not to see it, we ask not to live ; 
Only to toil, and our poor tributes give ! 

Spirit of Man, and the hope of the Race 
Grant to the future all powerful grace. 
Grant them the hope that we, dying, pass on ; 
Grant them true freedom : and, if we have won. 
But a scant measure, by toil and through pain. 
We are content, for our work is not vain. 



56 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Why, then, repine when our duty is clear? 
Who is true man, who e'er falters with fear, 
At a great task? At it, brothers, and strive 
Keep the faint glimmer with life breath alive ; 
Toil through the blood and the faintness and sweat, 
Pay to the race what fools leave them in debt ; 
Fight 'gainst the trash of the fools, and the sword, 
Take work beyond your strength — that your reward ! 

For we shall not see that millennium come ; 
Still in their ears is the roll of the drum ; 
Still the swine's ring, and the lamp of the fool ; 
Still the blind laws and the asinine rule ! 
When will the dolts learn to call upon mind; 
Leave all the dross and the rubbish behind ; 
Call on the men who have genius and brains ; 
Cast out the fools who grow fat on their pains? 

They knew it before, and they hear it again, 
And the arguments fall with the frequence of rain ; 
On roofs all unchinked, all shut in from the day — 
Where light cannot enter, in vain the rains play — 
"We hear it ! We know it ! Yes, we understand !" 
And yet when the drum beats, how many will stand? 



Retrospect. 

When I look back on wasted years 
And fruitless toil, it seems these tears 
Must nourish e'en that sterile seed. 
And make it blossom for mv need. 



BARON VANE. 57 



A Snowfall in New York City. 

Phantasmagoria, oppressive, vague. 

Spectral procession of bent, ragged forms. 
Braced nor inside nor out against the storms 

That rage without, nor reason's 'sidious plague. 

Too great to steal and too proud, yet, to beg 
Nor goaded yet to seize the anarch's alarms. 
Three hundred thousand men whom our blood warms, 

But whom our senseless brain lets drink the dreg. 

When lo ! About the towers white festoons blow, 
Deep in the canoned streets the shovels swing 
How soft each flake of heaven-sent manna rides, 
That feeds the starvelings! When fratricides 

Steal all earth's surface — products, tools, each thing ; 
And then deny e'en work — God sends the snow ! 



58 ACEOSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Punishment of Cupid. 

Cupid, on his beau-ing bent, 
On his mischief all intent. 
Roaming gay and carelessly. 
Practicing his archery. 
Shooting arrows recklessly. 
With poor maidens making free, 
With his malice-pointed darts 
Making sober careless hearts. 
With his slyly driven reeds 
Rousing bride from widow's weeds, 
With his friv'lous, mocking bolts 
Changing sober girls to dolts, 
Emptying noble minds of thought. 
Filling vacant ones with naught — 

God of mad infatuation, 
Coquetry and eke flirtation. 
Foolishness and all calf love. 
Oh, I wish you'd stay above, 
Oh, you rascal, Eros named ! 
Hear how this wild boy was tamed. 

Saw my Psyche sitting there, 
Combing out her glorious hair, 
Was himself caught in the mesh 
Which she wove; and through his flesh 
Felt the love that mortals know. 
Though a god ; and drew his bow. 
All resolved that she should share 
In his longing ; and with care 
Notched and drew and sped his shaft — 

Merrily sweet Psyche laughed. 
Puzzled then he wooed my Sweet 
Who, her anger roused complete, 
Threw him such a Gorgon stare. 



BARON VANE. 59 



As Medusa knew^ that there 
Was the boy turned into stone, 
Poised above her. Then my Own 
Turning saw me come, and gave 
Such a look as filled her slave 
With a rapture — Glad and sweet, 
Ah, for such a maid to greet ! 
Proud and mild, Ah, glorious eyes ! 
Quick I rushed to Paradise. 
But she held me first away, 
To the god held there did say, 
"Learn to know, thou foolish boy. 
How to use that idle toy. 
Know that once true Love has come 
From thy Mother, we become 
Blessed by Venus, and our hearts 
Proof against all other arts. 
All immune to such as thee. 
Wiser now, I set thee free, 
For by now thou'rt punished well." 
Looked at me, and broke the spell. 

But my jealousy still burned, 
Catching Psyche as she turned. 
Made his punishment complete, 
Watching there as our lips meet. 
Underneath the weeping boy, 
Stone no longer, gone his Joy, 
Kissed my Psyche till she fain 
Cried enough — Then kissed again. 



60 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Leech Up-to-date. 

Cut myself at finger ends, 

E'en before I feel it, 
Psyche sweet assistance lends. 

Helping me to heal it. 

Warm, red lips pressed 'round the tear, 

Hands caress my fingers — 
Far more pain than that I'd bear. 

Close as Psyche lingers. 

But at last she draws away. 

Hurt was very meagre, 
Surgeon slow with sick to stay, 

Patient rather eager. 

So I rack my stupid brain, 

Striving quick to summon 
To my need another pain, 

Something quite uncommon. 

Run my fingers through my hair. 

Scratch my addle-pate ; 
None but alienists' work there 

For dull wit — But wait ! 

Bite vexed lip — and then it bleeds, 
She the reason missing. 
"Now, dear surgeon," patient pleads, 
"Heal this up with kissing." 



BARON VANE. 61 



A Momentary Awakening. 

I sit in easy chair and drowse a while, 

A heavy dinner gone, and half in doze 

Kelax myself to dream — When sudden blows 
A squealing roar from near some river pile, 
Some horrid moron-memory and vile. 

As of a leviathan's scaly foes. 

It startles me. Instinctive I oppose 
Tense, watchful attitude — relax and smile. 

Ah, brave, old men who faced those fearful things 
Of pre-historic times, and later dread. 
To whom I owe safe life, warm cot, cheap bread, 

Can you believe one son to deaf god sings ; 

Thanks him, instead of thee? Tug shuts off steam, 
I sink back in my chair, and drowse — and dream. 



62 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Betrothed. 

I sat in the sunlight 
And she was in the shade. 

And sweet and clear and bright 
Her laughter as we played. 

I draw her close and gaze 
Into her lovely face, 

The eyelids slowly raise, 
And closer my embrace. 

I try to read her mind 
But mocking is her glance 

And veiled what lies behind; 
Only on surface dance. 

Two images of me. 

And these I tell her of, 

And ask her if they be 
A proof of her true love. 

And then does look the maid 
At mine to see her own. 

But she sits in the shade 
And no reflection's thrown. 

And then does gently chide. 
And doubts if I am true, 

And half draws from my side 
As if our game were through. 

But I am grown too wise 

And as she draws apart, 
"Mine's only in your eyes, 
But yours is in my heart I" 



BARON VANE. 63 

And then she turns and smiles, 

And sits repentant there — 
Oh woman and your wiles ! 

I kiss her massy hair. 

I sat in the sunlight 

And she was in the shade, 
And sweet and clear and bright 

Her laughter as we played. 



'Tis Only in the Night We See the Stars. 

Day hath her beauties. Pleasant is the time 

When Dawn, come forth, lets down the sable bars ; 

And pleasant is the Noon ; and pleasant, Eve : 
But only in the Night we see the stars. 

Joy hath her virtues. Pleasant is the time 
Of Happiness and Mirth that nothing mars ; 

Yet Sorrow hath her place, and Suffering : 
'Tis only in the Night we see the stars. 



64 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



"GiveUsBarabbas!" 

Accursed be Woman, for she sinned the first ! 
Accursed be Woman ! Paradise had been, 
Did she not search for knowledge once begin ! 

She of the primal two felt that fierce thirst. 

That touch of madness by the gods accurst ; 
And by her wild desire mankind did win 
To outer darkness — that was the great sin ! 

To seek to know — to mankind crime the worst ! 

Accursed be Eve, not fit to rank with men ! 

Bind fast the shackles lest she quest again ! 
Speak not of Cain who struck his brother down, 
The first to murder ; or of that dull clown. 

The sodden Noah, liquor's curse who bore — 

Or God Himself who bade the Hebrews war ! 



BARON VANE. 65 



J Rupert Brooke. 

Dead, dead thou art with thy sweet gift of song, 
Thy brave boy's face, thy cheerful wistful smile 
Would that thou could'st have lingered yet a while 

In place of some Avhose span drags out too long. 

'Tis hard to spare a lad of promise strong, 

Who loves the clean and true and spurns the vile. 
Knight-errant-like, who seeks the sternest trial 

To save the right and take a stroke at wrong. 
Although we never met I knew thee well. 
And claim our fellowship despite that knell. 

And now I know how when the years had brought 

The sense of greater battles to be fought 

And were but once the larger foe-men shown, 
A gallant gauntlet lay beside mine own. 



66 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Revenge of the Atheist. 

He struck the weak and cursed the poor man down, 
And used bond women for his bestial lust, 
And trod the infant and its mind in dust; 

And all the while hoped for eternal crown. 

And such as I, we bore his sternest frown, 

Who laughed at his blind god and brutish trust. 
That he who held the swill-pail would and must 

His favored swine in fuller refuse drown. 

I stood beside his death bed at the last. 
And saw smug priest with bored, half-stifled yawn 
Kaise plump, moist hand, and comfort (who did fawn 

Upon his like for gold ) . The time flew past. 

The numbered hours grew dear, the scared wretch cried- 
Cried wild and shivered, moaned and wept — and died ! 



BAROX VANE. 67 



Antony To Cleopatra. 

I am about to die ! 

O Love, dear Love, draw near ; 
And as the second's nigh, 

My last beside you here, 

Press your pale lips to mine, 
And Love, dear Love, drink deep 

The dregs that once were wine 
Until I fall asleep. 

And as my soul breathes out, 
O Love, dear Love, enfold 

The fleeting thing in 't's rout. 
And in your breast firm hold. 

So shall I be at rest. 

O Love, dear Love, there lies 
The only Heaven I quest, 

My dear Love-Paradise ! 

Watch jealously my breath, 
O Love, dear Love, draw nigh, 

So foil we crafty Death — 
O kiss me. Love — I die ! 



C8 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Tenerifife. 

Thou wert submerged beneath the ponderous wave, 

The billows stretched their supple languorous length 
As guards all confident in liquid strength, 

Contemptuous of the fettered weighted slave. 

When all at once upheaved the depths in ire, 
A dread convulsion built thy towering peak, 
And not content with awful roar to speak, 

You blazed your triumph on a sky of fire ! 



BARON VANE. 69 



To A Child Bride. 

They might have sheltered you, unripened bud, 

In youth's scant pleasure; for a worse than frost 
Has reft your verdant hope, your life is lost, 

Your tender petals trampled in the mud. 

Plucked all too soon, poor flow'rlet, gentle bloom, 

To gratify a selfish blind desire 

That might have found some older fruit in mire 
Not blighted in the stagnant shade-drawn gloom. 

Torn from the parent stem too soon for strength, 
No sturdy seed may ever come from thee. 
Your groping tendrils tied that should be free, 

Denied thee e'en a blossom's slender length. 

Thy seasons are awry, thy life apart. 

Thy Spring cut short, thy Summer never seen, 
A dreary Autumn, harvest faint and mean. 

And Winter lays cold hand upon thy heart ! 



70 ACBOSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Two Kisses. 

L'AMOUR ET L'AMOUE. 

Oh Love, how soft your smile, 

How dear your gentle eyes, 

The calm that in them lies ! 
Oh for the while, 

Kiss me as gently. Love, 

As does the wind above 
Rustle the leaves with scented air ; 
And so your hand upon my hair. 

As might my sister for a moment space 

Brush a fond hand across my passive face. 

Oh Love, how dark your eyes. 

As though the deeps were stirred, 

Your breast as storm fled bird 
Doth swoop and rise ! 

Kiss me as fiercely. Love, 

As flames the sky above 
When cracks the lightning and the thunder-burst 
Presages storm that cools my parching thirst ; 

As might the thunder-bolt, that breaks my lyre 

And leaves me crushed — but thrilled that space with fire ! 



BARON VANE. 71 



Poem of Passion. 

I would liold thee half unknown ! 
Nor would I approach thee nearer, 
I would hold thee so much dearer 

Than a plaything that I own. 

Think not I am cold in this, 
In the dusk I hear thee calling, 
See the ringlets round thee falling — 

Ah ! the rapture of a kiss ! 

But I set thee on a throne 

With my strength thy shield and cover, 

Thy protector as thy lover, 
Sweet, how else could love be shown? 

Even though when life has grown 

I shall keep thee as my idol, 

Till the glory of the bridal 
I would hold thee half unknown ! 



72 ACBOSS THE THRESHOLD. 



ConfessioiiaL 



Ho for dance and bacchanal I 

VioL? ! take that strain ! 
Back the chairs and clear the halll 

Play that o'er again I 
Psyche, to my arms, I call I 

Come and still this pain ! 
Hark, did David's harp to Saul 

Sweeter yet complain? 
Back the sense of god and all. 

Back the striving vain : 
Down from super-man I crawl. 

Come, let Bacchus reign ; 
Cosmos towers far too tall 

For my fevered brain ! 
Poet, painter, ye who scrawl 

In the dust, that rain 
Washes from the marbled hall. 

Drop your labor stain I 
We are gods ! Hear trombone bawl 

Summons to our train ! 
Throw this night then e'er it pall. 

And our joy be slain I 
Psyche, come, in my arms fall, 

Paradise attain ! 
Bacchus, clear you Heaven's wall ! 

Here true joy is lain ! 

Thus I drown in cursed mall 
Titste of hennebane ! 



BAKON VANE. 73 



The Fulfillment of Life. 

Thou art the quiutessence of earthly desire, 
A velvet-soft body, inspirit with fire. 

The end I had longed for as Death would be there. 
When lo ! thou didst enter as pain's anodyne. 
I drowsed in Death's arms but thou wok'st me with thine. 

Thine, wiping the death sweat away with thine hair. 

Lip to lip, hand to hand, breast to breast did we lie 

And thou as the old prophet with strength from on high 

Infused both the will and the power to live. 
Oh wonderful union ! And, Ah ! how has grown 
My body's sore weakness from strength of thine own. 

How fine to receive and how noble to give ! 

And, Ah ! sweet vampire, have thy lips drawn away 
All, all of my soul and left naught in the clay 

But thy soul which I hold in love's own embrace, 
A god-like commingling of fire and of flame ! 
Miraculous unity ! Beings the same — 

And harbinger of a great hope for the race ! 



74 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Poet at the Threshold. 

The solemn mystery of death, 

The dreadful fear of that slow, choking breath. 

Or that last, piercing beat of throbbing heart — 

Ah, do you start? 

You fear, then, craven babe, you fear to die? 

You fall upon bent knees and weeping cry 

vSome helpless litany ; forgotten men 

Dreamed, sang — and died, unaided then. 

Afraid 

To meet a shade? 

Why should you weep 

To sink in sleep. 

The soft, warm arm of slumber cast around, 

The fellow ground, 

The lack of strife and anger, grief and pain, 

Stale, selfish joy, and sordid pleasure stain? 

You wish to live, 

And yet what full return does your work give? 

Have you helped on the race, 

Nor cared for place. 

Nor power. 

Nor met the hour 

When you had naught to learn and less to show, 

Or could have held yourself above the rest that gc ? 

Are you a god. 

Oh, sickly clod. 

To live forever in immortal seat. 

Fit for eternal life in some fair bourne and sweet? 

Look at thyself, and think, "To live for aye, 

And at no day 

To feel the shame of all-unworthiness, and cry, 

'I long to die !' " 

That infant mind 

That naught can find 

In the whole universe at which to cling. 



BARON VANE. 75 

Save fabled heights which idiots sing, 

Think you 'twill live? Where is that spot 

At which your thought 

Aims for eternity to stand? 

What fairy land? 

You're on your way, in truth, and know not where 

Afraid to face the truth — That Death is there ! 

Perpetuate yourself in all your poor 
And worthless self, in ever sure 
Existence. I ask why 
You shall not die? 
Are you then fit 
To sit, 

By virtue of dull prayers 
In airs 

Celestial? Ah, bestial life! 
Ah, rife 

The wretched fears ! Yet proud, they say, 
"I am too great to die. I live alway. 
No man could till 
The veins they spill, 
That once ran liquid fire." 
And higher 

They sing this sodden song. 
Too long. 

And comes the end, 
Eefuting well the idle breath they spend. 

A simpering girl. 

Whose yellow curl 

Peers in her empty face from some fair glass. 

A goddess now — How swift the years do pass ! 

Old age creeps on, 

Vain charms are gone ; 

The withered hag clings to a fading light. 

This man's great might 

Controlled the world. 



7G ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

A throne o'er-hurled, 

Stock markets shift, and he is plunged beneath, 
And longs to sink him deeper in the heath. 

Hast ne'er known Love grown pale, 

And Lust grown stale. 

And even Friendship tire, and Thoughts grow cold, 

Thoughts that were bold, 

World-conquering, a moment hence? 

Each hour suspense, 

As if a sword liung up might fall, yet clings 

Unto the slender strings 

Of doubt? 

Alike the praise, alike the rabble's shout, 

Vague, restless nights and sullen days 

That spread the questioning ways. 

Of that poor creature thing which bred a brain 

From brutish clay, and left the stain 

Of spirit linked to beast with such a strength 

It can not live for e'en a moment's length. 

That follows its container's rout. 

Pain, swing thy leaded knout ! 

Come, hopeless lout! 

Turn thee, dull fool, about! 

Blow out 

The tender flame, the flickering wick. 

Nor be heartsick 

That Death must ever be. 

For see ! 

How nobler to embrace a brilliant mind, 

All man can find 

In his brief hour, and fix his life in bounds; 

Than to exist forever in dull rounds. 

Think you to e'er attain 

What your dense brain 

Can know not here on earth ; or worth the land 

Which thou bv toil can never understand? 



BARON VANE. 77 

We know, nor ever can know, in our sphere 
One single thing unended ; we but fear 
What we know not ; our brains refuse to hold 
A thing so great as that, a thought so bold. 
Why not admit that we are mortal, and 
As mortals take a brave and dauntless stand? 
Eternity we can not comprehend. 
Here fixed man's aim and end : 

The clod that knows 

Is greater as is poetry than prose. 

That speech beyond attent, that binds in small. 

Fixed limits and marked down, the All-in- All, 

Beginning and the End ; and so outgleams 

With its brave dreams. 

The dull, prosaic stuff that spreads unchained 

By corporeal ends, its splendor waned. 

With its extent unmarked, its lack of fire — 

Beat your crude drums, I sing the living lyre ! 

They say god-like to drag 

Long days that lag, 

Each slower than the one that went before ; 

Adore 

An asinine imagining ; and howl 

Drab prayers, and nasal psalms and foul, 

For endless turn on turn. 

Oh learn ; 

If this be noble, spirit all-awry. 

Why how much nobler is it then 

To comprehend our limit life as men. 

And god-like die ! 



78 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



True Caste. 

Once spread a Fowler great a mighty net, 
Miles high ; it's ends far distant oceans wet ; 

So huge that in it's all-encircling folds 

Birds lived and died whose wings had never met. 

And some who dwelt about the centre there, 
Nor cared to search the world for freer air, 

Lived out dull lives unknowing of the bounds, 
Unknowing that the upper heights were fair. 

And some there were who reached the very edge, 
There baffled; as perchance some towering ledge 

O'erawes poor climbers and away they turn ; 

Fearing the lone snow flowers, they plucked the sedge. 

Some few high-soaring and with lofty flight 

Outdistancing almost the common sight 
Caught a few rays ; and mothlike then pressed on, 

Striving with bleeding wings for distant light. 

Then comes the Fowler for them, one by one ; 

The dull ones who have never strife begun ; 
And those who see, yet are afraid ; and those 

Whose bleeding wings beat ever at the sun. 



BAEON VANE. 79 



Curse. 

If I should die before I bend my power 

Against your foul, wrong living, that bows down 
The Race's strength before your tinsel crown ; 

If I should die before that 'venging hour, 

In which my life and all my work shall flower ; 
And all their fullness in dark Lethe drown ; 
If I should lose the stroke at such a clown. 

As you do represent — yet storm-clouds lower ! 

Think not you shall escape me, blatant fool ; 
Think not to pass unscathed because I claim 
That man is mortal. Thinkest thou death could tame 

My clay unsated with your shattered rule? 

Mine essence, gone baresark 'gainst god and dolt. 
Would fuse to lightning — 'Ware Hell's thunderbolt ! 



80 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Dialogue. 

Oh Father, I am sick at heart, 

The elifif is high and steep, 
Each thought of depths brings trembling start, 

I see it in my sleep ! 

And waken with the cold, death chill 

And shriek in wild affright. 
See the abyss along the hill 

Wait in the cold, black night. 

A trap like that the hunter sets 

With pitfall and with snare. 
Oh Father, feel the pale, fear sweats. 

Some morn you find me there ! 

For man is poor clay, mortal thing 

And Nature fearful strong. 
A slip — a fall — the valleys ring 

With man's last, shrill death song ! 

My Son, you call man poor and weak. 

And fear the yawning deep ; 
The tunnel through the ridge shall speak. 

The wide bridge guards your sleep. 

Oh Father, feel my quick heart beat, 

I see the cruel, gray sea 
With crushing tides and waves so fleet. 

It seems to beckon me. 

I see myself long leagues from shore 

While fearful monster forms 
Grasp clammy hands about my oar, 

The flotsam of their storms ! 



BARON VANB. ' 81 

I feel the sharp teeth in my side, 

And sink in greenish scum, 
And roll in ooze and slimy tide 

Till myriad feasters come ! 

In liquid life death seems so hard, 

The fright and strangling slow, 
The grim sea holds the winning card. 

And our poor hands must go ! 

My Son, you fear a conquered thrall, 

Our cables bind him o'er. 
In vain his blows on light-house fall. 

Our vessels mock his roar. 

Oh Father, how the storm-king hurls 

His might against the walls, 
With jets, and gusts, and surge, and whirls, 

The cyclone on us falls ! 

And awed before the gale we crouch. 

But slaves to empty air. 
Denied us e'en our humble couch, 

Wrecked by the tempest there. 

Dependent on him e'en for breath, 

A loathsome worm am I ! 
Kefuse my lungs ! Come, welcome Death ! 

Let such an earthling die ! 

To earth held down by stronger bounds 

Than ever man can break — 
Oh Father, cease the sordid rounds. 

Let us oblivion take ! 

My Son, my Son, take heart again, 

Our godhood is begun. 
Hast never seen an aeroplane 

Beat up against the sun? 



82 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Self Conscious. 

I held a sea shell to my ear 

And felt the surge and all the fear 

Of all the billows' hill. 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still ! Be still ! 

And dreamed the mermaid's golden comb, 
Where siren singings in the foam 

Sweet, nectared breath instil. 
Ah, my heart. 

Be still ! Be still ! 

And heard love murmurs in my ear. 
And heard the call, "My dear ! My dear !" 

How sweet the love notes trill ! 
Ah, my heart. 

Be still ! Be still ! 

Illusion fond, deception dear. 

Feigned roar, feigned call, for in my ear. 

My own blood vessels thrill. 
Ah, my heart. 

Be still! Be still! 

I take away the shell — and peace ! 
My feelings calm, the throbbings cease, 

Now free from glow or chill. 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still! Be still! 

However loud the hate-wdnds grow, 
However sweet love-zephyrs blow, 

They but return thy will. 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still ! Be still ! 



BARON VANE. 83 

The winds form off thy heated heart, 
Without which they had never start — 

Yet see, how whirls the mill ! 
Ah, my heart. 

Be still! Be still! 

The awe, the love, the gleams that dance, 
Are all but shadowed circumstance. 

Reflected well or ill. 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still ! Be still ! 

'Tis but myself I dream and hear, 
The will removes the shell of fear. 
Which mirrors sounds that kill. 

Ah, my heart. 
Be still ! Be still ! 

Learn, heart, upon thyself to lean, 
Not on this flickering, idle screen, 

Reflects of thy weak will. 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still ! Be still ! 

Undaunted by the surge of wrath. 
The praise and blame along my path, 

That all the echoes fill. 
Ah, my heart. 

Be still ! Be still ! 

I stand foursquare to all the wind. 
No place for myths to crouch behind — 

I am ! I can ! I will ! 
Ah, my heart, 

Be still!' Be still! 



84 ACROSS THE TllKESlIOLD. 



''Each One Knows." 

I stripped your petals from you, one by one, 
Your silks and linens ; left you blushing theve ; 

Frail sacred guardians of the maiden won — 
And blushed myself to ravish one so fair. 

And yet were not the bee to rob the flower 

Of 'luring honey, not a blossom sweet 
Would bloom next Spring to deck one single bower. 

Would raise a velvet face the sun to greet. 

And you had withered in so short a space. 
Had grown forlorn, neglected, and no seed 

Were sown to reproduce your lovely grace — 
And other maxims my regret might heed. 

It were not wrong then on that golden night 
To leave you bare of petals ; each one knows. 

Your life is'all fulfilled, as our delight. 
And vet — vou were so beautiful a rose ! 



BARON VANE. 85 

The Traitor Lock. 

We danced the maze together, Goddess mine, 
Like bubbles of old, effervescent wine, 

Whose sparkling breath in ecstasy did blow 
Across a world of frost-rimmed, bacchant joy. 
In a clear, autumn goblet, sans alloy, 

A glassy horizon, cloudless of woe. 

Your face was o'er my shoulder, closely veiled 
By clouded, dusky hair, which sweet exhaled 

A fragrance all thine own. The earthern grail 
Of all the East could never brew such breath. 
Your hair a hazy shield. If only Death 

Came shrouded thus, who'd fear to raise the veil? 

And yet I trembled with the thrilling sense 
Of your fond nearness, held in dear suspense 

By thy sweet mirth, merry — yet clear and cold. 
Nor dared the challenge of our close embrace, 
Your arms withheld me, and your laughing face ; 

I could not see it frame, "Your lips not bold." 

Then in the moonlight madness, swift we danced, 
The lights blown out, by twilight gleams entranced. 

I still lacked strength, still falcon played the dove. 
For still thou'rt gay with a delicious show 
Of happiness with me ; yet well I know, 

Joy colder is than Pain, Mirth is not Love. 

You stiffened in my arms as closer drew 

The viols' weird quavered plaint, the pipes renew — 

Across my lips those dusky curls of thine ! 
Your Judas hair betrayed you with a kiss. 
Nor was I slow to seek your lips' dear bliss ! 

Your Judas hair betrayed you ! Y^'ou were mine ! 



86 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Jitney Poet. 
A PsEUDO Sonnet. 

Kick the drum aud bang the lyre ! 

For the noble Pegasus 

Has become a jitney-bus 
Rented out to all for hire. 
Cheapened prices draw the buyer 

Who for dimes don't give a cuss. 

She won't fly? They raise no fuss 
If she drag them through the mire. 
Andy pensions presidents, 
Nobel gives the great ones pence, 
But such men are rare and few 
So I put it up to you ; 
Lower rates and more who ride 
Pays a man, so step inside. 

Pegasus is flighty too 
Won't be hitched with common asses, 
Feeds on rare infrequent grasses, 

Flies but seldom ; while I do 
Fixed routes. My cheap machine 
Thrives on twelve-cent gasoline. 
Sappho's self was not so choice 
As to lovers, so rejoice ! 
Neither is my conveyance, 
Sans- culottes or wearing pants 
All are welcome for a dime. 
Come ! Your name lives for all time ! 
Don't you think its mighty cheap? 
Drop your jitney ! In you leap ! 
Ma^cen asses are quite rare, 
Of rich patrons world is bare. 
Down the price of fame has come. 
Bang the lyre and kick the drum ! 
We don't care for precedents ! 
We need cash to pay our rents ! 



BARON VANE. 87 

And a lack of sense makes pence. 
Who's afraid of fifteen cents 
For immortalized joy-ride? 
Come ! I'll throw the throttle wide ! 
You who would be glorified 
Pay your dime and jump inside ! 

Fourteen lines a sonnet makes 
But who gives a damn for rules ! 

Pocket jingles when it shakes. 
Some don't take it ? Oh the fools ! 

Paid at nineteen cents per line 

Who would draw his meter fine? 
Pay two bits, I'll write you out 
Anything from god to lout, 
For a jitney write you up 
Anything from prince to pup, 
Make the people swear you are 
Anything from pope to czar. 
Why pay more? A dime will do ! 
I'm a reg'lar poet, too. 
Come ! I've sold my Pegasus ! 
Come and ride my jitney-bus ! 



Immutability. 

He w^ho seeks Love can compromise with Lust, 
Changing his loves as garments every day ; 

He who would write can scribble in the dust 
Beneath the masters' feet that fades away ; 

He who seeks God and would have God just so 
Can raise an idol, wood or stone, on high — 

But he who asks, "Whence come we? Whither go?" 
Can only ponder — ponder, and then die. 



SS ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Symbol. 

The last, long cloud against the sky 
Stretched dragon length, dark, long and high, 
Of some imponderable weight — 
Oh shadowed soul, here is thy fate I 

The sun behind the range's ledge 
Casts shadows stern from hazy edge, 
Close-packt and vast the lone cloud lies, 
And 'ueath its awe my sad hope dies. 

Impregnable as some foul lair 
Of Titan giants couched in air, 
That crushed Olympus by their might. 
And stole my goddess and my light. 

For she is gone, the joyous Love ! 
That grim, black isle, dull etched above. 
Hides her, perhaps, hides all of life, 
Grins cold and autumn-clear at strife. 

As well touch sun as reach those trees. 
Faint marked, as where some errant breeze 
Tears strands from thee ; as well see wind. 
As reach that portal, and behind. 

Tears fill mine eyes, I kneel me down. 
My heart is awed, man's glories drown — 
But still ! What is that tiny frame? 
That sun-touched bit of glowing flame? 

Ah, well I know that staccato, 
That murmured hum ! See ! See it go ! 
Beat up with proud and bold ascent — 
See, by its touch the cloud is rent ! 



BARON VANE. 89 

Back, Doubt ! Down, Fear ! And sink, Despair ! 
My lungs expand with freer air, 
As do this aeronaut's with height. 
With fellow pride in human might. 

So, one by one, chimeras fall, 
And man mounts master over all. 
Though craven heart may slack and chill. 
Oh, strong the mind, and ff^^' ;he will ! 



The Love Note. 

The singing word that glows as fire, 
From inkened page can so inspire 
My heart as never any lyre, 
Apollo's finger smote. 

For every melody you write 
Each sense of mine enraptures quite, 
As were celestial gamut bright 
In each angelic note. 



90 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Christians. 

They think of naught 
Save lust and war, 
Their battles fought, 
Their heaped up store. 

Oh Christ, your wounded brow ! 
Lost now ! • 

A growing weight 

Their shoulders bear — 
A golden freight 
And other fair. 

Oh Christ, your heavy cross ! 
All loss! 

Their hairless hands. 

As Jacob's, tear 
A brother's lands ; 
Nor pottage share. 

Oh Christ, your pierced hands ! 
Shift, sands ! 

Their guts they fill 

With ravished flesh, 
Nor cease their kill, 
But spread new mesh. 

Oh Christ, your bleeding side! 
Ebb, tide ! 

The earth groans loud. 

The seas reply, 
The fiend stalks proud, 
Your precepts die. 

Oh Christ, your useless pain ! 
All vain ! 



BARON VANE. 91 

In Confidence. 

My friends all called me clever, 

They laughed until they shook 
At my bon mots, "I never !" 
"You ought to write a book !" 

I laughed in turn, and smiling 

Soon turned to serious thought ; 
And then my brain beguiling 

A lustrous plot was wrought. 

I thought of fame and honor, 

My vanity o'erboiled ; 
Of royalties — a goner ! 

I sat me down and toiled. 

They said success was sure to come 

If I could only reach the heights 
Of classic thought — I made things hum ; 

I worked all day and sat up nights. 

But Oh has come a dreadful thing 

Which I had not expected. 
Oh were some Dante here to sing 

The hell of works neglected. 

The book was writ and published too — 

Not that the shoe that pinches. 
And Doctor Eliot's five-foot shelf 

Became five feet — two inches. 

Here, here the rub my worthy friend 

Nor honor I, nor pelf 
My book has reached a sorry end 

MY BOOK IS ON THE SHELF ! 

And now I strive with stern set frown 

As hard as I am able 
To push it from that shelf and down 

On everybody's table ! 



92 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Ballad of Long John Silver. 

Oho there ! Ho there ! 

Corporal Dan Magoon I 
Oho there ! Ho there ! 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 

I thought when my stick begins to creak 

I'd be seeing my buccaroon ; 
An' I ain't seen yon for a hell of a time, 

For many a bloody moon. 

So gimme a chew, 

An' take one too, 
An' we'll make for the Black Horse Inn. 

An' tell our story 

Of blood an' glory 
An' fight for the first to begin. 

We'll blow there, blow there. 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 
We'll blow there, blow there, 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 

An' so there, so there. 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 
An' so there, so there, 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 

Remember that gal we used to run 

Along of Cavite Bay, 
An' I beat you up an' took all the fun — 

What's that there? What did you say? 

"I lie like the devil," 
Why say on the level 
It's straight an' you know it damn well ! 



BARON VANE. 93 

But if you will figlit, 

Take this (swings bottle) an' GOODNIGHT! 
An' go to our mates down in hell ! 

You'll go there, go there, 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 
You'll go there, go there, 

Corporal Dan Magoon ! 



Fruition. 

These years are bare, and there is little rain ; 
But seven will go and seven must come again. 
For us — the plow, the sowing of the seed. 
And for our children's child — the better grain. 



94 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Works Without Faith. 

Ballad. 

I've crouched on bent and weary knees and drove a drill- 
head through, 
My hard pressed lungs were gasping worse with every 

breath I drew ; 
The water seeped in overhead, the groaning caissons bent, 
But every sweatin' buckaroon hung on till he was spent. 
Some of us got the rickets and some of us lost our limbs. 
And our throats aint so parched and sore from singin' gos- 
pel hymns. 
Our pants is baggy at the knees and every knee is frayed — 
But I'd rather they were that way than from baggin' 'cause 
I'd prayed. 

I ain't got time for prayer and hymns, I got my work to do 

'Tis no man's place to kneel and pray when true man's 
work's in view. 

When parson gets from off his knees he may have helped his 
soul. 

But when I get from off o' mine I leave a damn big hole 

That's blasted through the river's bed and soon the sub- 
way's roar 

Will echo through a short safe run to tell I went before. 

Some may delight to hymn and pray and with the women 
stand. 

But I feel best and I do best with steel gripped in my hand. 

I put the tunnel in it's place, I built that mighty pile, 
The steamship and the submarine, canals and every mile 
Of railways, and the autocar, the soaring aeroplane. 
Whichever way you turn to look you see my work again. 
When parson gets from of¥ his knees, his pantaloons arc 

bagged, 
(And mine are soaked in oil and grime, and torn and worn 

and ragged!) 



BARON VANE. 95 

He turns from me and my rough look with hurt and saintly 

air, 
But where would we and parson be if I'd depend on prayer? 

And yet I ain't a dummy and I ain't so awful tough, 
I read my daily paper and I like to read good stuff 
That's writ for men and women who can work and help 

each other. 
I don't care much for other things, I only think my brother 
Shall have my toil and all its fruits — he needs it pretty bad 
You know what men and babes go through without me 

gettin' mad 
At thinkin' on the children that are cryin' out for aid 
And them who thinks their work is done if they has knelt 

and prayed. 

But I believe in useful work that helps the world around. 
I feel a sort of holy joy in tearin' out the ground, 
Or f orgin' plates, or puddlin' steel, or doin' all my work, 
Let children have their time to play and let not grown men 

shirk 
You think that prayer for some dear gain is the most gain- 
ful plan, 
I think the highest thing of all is work for brother Man ! 
If you expect an after life I think I'll take a chance, 
My overalls are a damn sight worse than the bulges in your 
pants ! 

I ain't inquirin' 'bout your heaven, nor yet about your hell. 
I don't know much of anything — and I know that damn 

well! 
You say in heaven you'll hymn and pray and kneel forever 

there 
If that is true I know in heaven that I'd be lost for fair. 
So God just send me down to hell, there's fire and ore and 

men; 
And that's where I belong, good Lord, to toil and sweat 

again ; 
If I could work at my own trade I'd be a happy soul, 
But God put me to useful work — if only shoveling coal ! 



96 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Confession of Inability, 

We toil with reason's wedge to stir the folk 

To knowledge of true good ; and though they weep 
In travail harsh, and sweat, their brains still sleep, 

Though even Earth herself had stirred and woke. 

We waste our every toil; our fluest stroke 

Falls on these palsied things in slumber deep ; 
Although it seems the very stones must leap 

As witnesses of truth and laws all broke. 

Oh for some tongue of more than mortal worth 

To wake for us this giant-strength in earth. 
Was not there such a one, immortal voice, 
Who conquered Hell, made rocks and trees rejoice? 

Come, Orpheus, sweet harpist of the Gods ; 

See if thy strains can stir these blocks and clods ! 



BARON VANB. 97 



Manhood. 

Ah, she was wondrous fair, was glorious Youth, 

And glad was I to have such one to be 

My partner in the dance and jollity; 
Smooth waxed the floor, gay streamers decked each booth ; 
As swung we in and out, sweet music's sooth 

Moved me to silent rapture or wild glee 

As shift the varying strings ; and then came she, 
My second partner, stately deep-eyed Truth. 
"Why are your eyes so sad and moist?" I spoke, 

"When waxen smooth the floor and music sweet — " 

She said, "I see the blood beneath our feet, 
Man's blood and sweat ; the plaintive strains are woke 
From human heart-strings." 

Now I cannot dance 

As long as there are babes who lack the chance. 



98 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Ballad. 



Once I loved a sweet, young maid 
Who returned my love she said 
Tra la la la la 
What a merry world ! 

But a sorry lot was mine 
I had neither lands nor kine 
Tra la la la la 
What a sorry world ! 

Other wooer bent and old 
Oh his lands and Oh his gold 
Tra la la la la 
What a sorry world ! 

You can guess which one she wed 
Oh I wished that I was dead 
Tra la la la la 
What a sorry world ! 

But the carlin up and died 
You can guess his widow cried 
Tra la la la la 
What a merry world ! 

Round the sun another whirl 
Now I've land and gold and girl 
Tra la la la la 
What a merrv world ! 



BARON VANE. 99 



The Lovelorn Poet. 

Oh Sappho, wake thy lyre since barren years 
And sing to me of love. My lips are dry 
From sweet caress of woman, I but sigh 

A plaintive note, or weep my empty tears, 

Or boast vain breaths as of the adoring fears 
With which the maids regard me ; every lie 
My sorry verse assumes. For chaste I sigh. 

When vision of your grace in dream appears. 

Oh Sappho, come and live in human guise, 
Ee-incarnate in beauty, charm and soul. 

Not such as one who has the first, dear prize 
Alone ; or lacks the better — or the whole ! 

Oh godlike One, who made the Muses ten. 

Did not immortals sometimes mate with men? 



100 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



To the Player. 

A thrill along my frame that flutes through lips 

In melody — yet not the author I ; 

For thou hast drawn the music from the sky, 
And blown upon me, muting finger tips, 
Until the instrument woke from eclipse. 

So when they think my lyre to sweetly sigh, 

Or when a sudden glory strikes from high ; 
Then heartstrings thine and mine sing fellowships. 

All of my humble woith in thee is bound, 

The inner rapture and the outer sound. 
Remember, Love, and hold the pipes with care; 
Oh gently cherish them, my lovely Fair ! 

Once ceased Love's breath, not e'en farewell they cry; 

But dumb the shattered reeds on ground must lie ! 



BARON VANB. 101 

The Ballad of the Gentle Troubador. 

Oh gay the springtime eve and gay my heart, 

For soon the viols start, 

And soon the harps with their seductive strain, 

And then our joyous train 

From o'er the town advance — 

Ah sweet the dance ! 

The merry youths and maids, the laugh, the smile, 

The 'luring smile that lingers yet a while. 

As one shall meet mine eyes ! 

All life a prize ! 

And I have won ! I, King ! 

When they see me the walls do ring 

With shout and loyal hail of friends all true — 

Hast seen girls' lips that smile and promise you? 

Quick ran I from the house ; the dusky street 
Eesounded from no feet. 
But quiet lay. 

For 'twas that pause between the end of day 
And balmy night's approach ; 'twas not yet dark — 
Oh hark! 
A cry ! 
"Idle! 

Help, there ! My child ! Oh God, my child, my child !" 
Silence ! Yet that repeat so wild. 
My heart so gay grew cold. 
Yet was I bold. 
And 'round the corner thrust. 
There in the dust 

The dead man lay, upturned his bleeding breast, 
Poor clothed, wan featured, toil worn, did he rest. 
At last ; his calloused hands out flung ; 
His meagre coppers from his pocket wrung ; 
Alone ! And yet that shriek of pain — 
Ah ! Did it ring again? 



1C2 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

A hundred yards or so along the road 

A score of wastrels bore a passive load, 

A girl's slight figure — that was why he cried, 

And fought so well, and fought so brave, and died ! 

The same odds I must face. Ah no ! Ah no ! 

To die in vain were rash. I go, I go ! 

My gallant friends so fast and brave will come, 

As if the flag were waved and roared the drum ! 

On to the hall. Around the square 
I went on wings of air, 
On rapid way — 
Yet stay ! 

Again the adjacent babble breaks. 
Yet this time no one quakes. 
As I, from fearful tone 
They are mine own! 

I wave them as they come, the joyous throng — 

Ah, can there be such horrid things and wrong? 

It seems a nightmare dream, 

And this the sudden beam 

That drives through cloud and shows 

All colors rose; 

All life but youth — 

But still that cry ; but still the dastard truth ! 

Dear Gaspard, noble Pedro, brave Jose, 
This were more equal fray, 
The stalwart shoulder and the manly face — 
Thank God for such a noble human race ! 
Sweet Carmen, gentle Sylva, and their queen. 
Mine own, my Isabella ; of such mien 
The very paving stones did kiss her shoon 
As thanks for treading them, as priceless boon ! 



BARON VANE. 103 

But time was short ; I told them of the strife, 

The rascal plunder aud the stealthy knife, 

The craven murder and the ravished girl 

E'en now at mercy of some villain churl. 

In broken sentences, most moved to tears, 

I bade them haste, pictured the poor child's fears, — 

I grew wild eloquent. 

And gasped, my breath all spent — 

Her agony, her shame, that we were men, 

Our courage equal to their two times ten ! 

When loud did Gaspard laugh and struck my back 
With one of his resounding fellow's smack, 
"Why man, you are a dunce ! 'Tis but a wench 
Of common blood. What matter if they wrench 
A thousand such as she from sodden home? 
A thousand such as she about you roam. 
They feel it not as we. 
Nor care to flee. 

They live as brutes, not human kind. 
Come, dance and sing!" 
And high they fling 
Their hands. And then they all 
Dance in gay bacchanal ! 

But you, brave Jose, noble Pedro, men. 

Whose swords were surely out of sheath again. 

At any woman's cry ! "I heard it not." 

Shrugs Pedro; and Jose, "Why then so hot? 

Was she thy flame? Why out upon thee, man. 

When here the fairest lips in Cordovan 

Smile back to thine. Forget the herd and come !" 

Oh hear the drum! 

And then they all 

Shout, "Carnival !" 

The Castanet! 



104 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

One chance, one yet ! 
The jealous girls all turn 
A haughty back. They burn 
As if my taste were low. 
And thou too go, 

My Isabella, can that hard bright gleam 
Come from your eyes, my love, my dream? 
Thou too, thou too? 
Ah what say you? 
"Go to your vulgar herd ! 
I have no word !" 
She stamped a dainty heel. 
Ah, I could kneel 

And kiss it from her slipper ; yet I stand 
Nor yet command. 

"Or go or stay, we all 
Are to the ball !" 

And then she threw such melting eye 
I come — but then that cry ! 
That ghostly echo rang 
Like mournful clang! 
A knell to love, to life, sweet breath — 
To all but honor, and to all but death ! 

"You are the sweetest singer of our train. 
The graceful dancer, come, we dance again !" 
But no more tremor. Still as rock I stood. 
What is this sense of common brotherhood? 
While one girl dies I cannot laugh or sing. 
Not while my voice a clarion call can ring ; 
Or while those feet that would so gaily dance. 
Can lead against the dastards swift advance ! 

My strength is naught 

For all that battle to be fought. 

But still I give it free. 



BARON VANE. 105 

And let that be 

A feather in the balance that may turn 

The entire scale, for that I steel me stern ! 

They go in joyous rout 

And all the light blots out. 

Gone is my youth, my joy. 

Of careless boy! 

Only the flame burns red 

And by the gleam I'm led 

To strike at wrong with strength 

For all my days' short length ! 

I cannot dance and sing. 

But I can fling 

My slender strength against the dark blood stain. 

That spreads in foul stretched reign 

Of wrong and brute and beast. 

My life at least 

Shall be a sullen gage 

In this grim fight I wage. 

I die, but I tear down 

More than one clown, 

Who fouled the fairest one. 

Who clouded all the sun ! 

Silent I speed me down. 

The vicious town 

Sneers at my heat, 

Stones catch my feet. 

Ah petty strife 

To take my life, 

So young, so prized. 

Ah yes, so prized ! 

By one who mourns. Her charms 

For other arms ! 

And yet I hurl. 

For one slim girl, 



lOG ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

Whose face I do not know, 
My life in one swift throw — 
How sad ! And yet what thrill ! 
What ecstasies instil, 
Through every vein ! 
Washed out the thought of gain. 
Gone all the craven fear, 
The strife is here ! 

For there they stand, 
The scowling band. 
They stand against but one. 
They do not run ! 
Ah my good sword ! 
And all the hoard 
Of mighty youth ! My arms, 
Trained for alarms ! 
My soul no longer cowed, 
But only proud, 
That I who grieved to lose 
The cup, the dancing shoes. 
The song, my queen, my all 
The world gave me at call, 
Have found the greatest thing 
Is to the altar bring 
All life and give it free 
That fellow man may be 
The better for your gift! 
All clouds so lift ! 
Acquire all that you may 
And can, nor ever stay ; 
But think thou not. 
All this once got 
Is thine forevermore. 
'Tis but a store 
With you as noble host 
To turn it back the most. 



BARON VANE. 107 

Acquire uot but for self 

Your learning, power and pelf. 

Pile up strength, knowledge, all— but not to live! 

Round out a splendid soul 

And if at need the whole, 

And life itself is asked— be God, and give! 



Admonition. 

When a transient flame burns lightly, 
Heed it not but wait for One. 

He who blears his eyes with candles 
Never gazes on the sun. 



108 ACROSS THE TIIKESHOLD. 



Appreciation. 

Youth is the dreaming time of brave ideals, 
Of Love untouched by Lust's defiling hands, 
Of Truth unbound by sneering Age's bands ; 

Child finger on the world the strong pulse feels 

Of its true beat ; the steady fire anneals 

The mind attuned till one with life it stands. 
All babes are true to the divine commands, 

'Tis but our training that their virtue steals. 

Have you not placed a tear upon the grave 
Of those fond child crusaders who would save 
With fragile baby hands and tender brain 
The sepulchre that once did Spirit chain? 
And when vain, child-like peace ship starts, 'mid jeers, 
Feel you not gladness for ideals with years? 



BAKON VANE. 109 



The Weakling. 

I threw my youth — my little all — away, 

Pursuing that which always farther lay, 

On heights that mocked my stature : when I found 

Youth lied, Hope gone ; I sank upon the ground ! 

The once dewed laurel turned to memory's thyme. 

Experience harshly slew fond look for time 

Of brighter lustre ; I was all o'er blown 

With darker fog, than through the sun had shone 

On stronger days ; sick waking, night-mare sleep — 

Drops on my face — Ah, did immortals weep? 

Quick, eager eyes to Heaven ; a heavy cloud, 
Through which the bright share of the lightning plowed. 
The bitter chalice I had thought well drained. 
The Gods poured down in fuller lees ; it rained ! 
It rained ! And, chilled before, cold grew my blood ; 
Sure crept about my form the lapping flood. 
To raise myself, and stand ; or fitly sprawl, 
Inglorious gutter-couched, and sadly bawl? 
Prate as you will of god-men, they are where? 
Some things there are a mortal cannot bear ! 



110 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



To 



Not the uoiiii or the verb, but the ablative of Means or 
Instrument. 



I know not if you write in joy or pain, 

With tense desire to serve your fellow clods, 
Or on cold, moveless tablets, as the gods ; 

With talons vile, or hands all free from stain ; 

With calm, free stroke, or thrilled by godlike pain; 
As one who feels the lashing of the rods. 
That urge him on to toil, or he who nods 

Above the letters, and then scrawls again. 

For who or what you are concerns me not. 
You are but instrument of all the Race, 
Forced by some certain breeding to a place. 

On which the rest had ne'er a foothold got. 

It matters not if god be stone or wood, 

If man be ass or sage — the work is good. 



BARON VANE. Ill 



Discourse. 

You ask me, Love, if I could love you less. 
Your sweetly serious face is next to mine. 
Your beauty and your charm seem more divine, 

Enhanced by your naive yet real distress. 

You ask me if I love your face, your dress. 

Your smile, your sigh, your lips — those lips of thine ! 
Or any one of these, less dearly fine. 

Would cool my love, as fades thy comeliness. 

Move closer. Love, and lean here as I do : 
If you would lose one charm, and yet forget 
The loss, and smile it down, then would I yet 

Adore you, Love, it rests with only you. 

If you would lose one charm, nor queen it through, 

You would kill love — but vou would kill me too ! 



112 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Edgar Allen Poe— "Remote, Unfriended, Melancholy, 

Slow." 

By night a god, by a day a village butt, 
A weary, battered fool for every blame, 
Brain cooled by purple heights, flesh in hot shame, 

With head in clouds and feet that dragged in smut. 

Berated oft because I left my gut 

Go hungry, while for lack of praise and fame, 
Denied me, was my other food the same. 

All doors to earthen joys forever shut. 
Bereft of all that makes existence fair 
Save work, and with the soul persisting there — 

Enough within itself. But Ah ! the pain 

Of loneliness that showed no outward stain. 
To wild amaze my mirror showed each night 
Un wrinkled face and — God ! — my hair not white ! 



BARON VANE. 113 



Henry George. 

They cling, these leeches, to the lands that dead, 
Once-griping hands have seized. Foresight or luck 
Picked out earth's arteries, their children suck. 

To cure ill-nourishment the poor man's bled. 

For on dense streets are life and commerce led, 
Each plot a toll-gate for each rumbling truck, 
Each passer-by must pay that bit of muck 

It's toll of life blood ere his brood is fed. 

Cried one, "Rise up ! Strike off these parasites 

Of prostitution, hunger, war ; the blights 
Of false economy ; the fell disease 
Of swoll'n land Values." Still at bloated ease. 

The leeches cling, soft, loathsome as the dead. 

And Oh ! their teeth are "vhite, their lips are red ! 



114 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



The Nature Faker. 

"The ant," thus pompously he did begin, 
"Is a strange, foolish creature. Of the soil 
On which their hill is built, by common toil, 
A few possess the most and shut it in 
To idleness and call it lawless sin 

To break the fixed bounds. All efforts foil 
To make it serve. Hence small areas boil 
With crowded insects, while the few can grin — " 

A man far back among the crowded rows, 
In righteous wrath, stood and did loudly cry 
"You fool ! Why every ignorant donkey knows 
That in an ant-hill all things work or die !" 
Quick he consults his notes," The title ran, — 
I had my two talks mixed— not 'ANT' but 'MAN !' " 



BARON VANB. 115 



An Educational Film. 

I dreamed one night a cinematograph 

Threw on the screen a culture large of germs 
The title to be last in Latin terms — 

And how their simple actions drew the laugh ! 

Their world was all controlled, not even by half, 
But by a thousandth part of the blind worms, 
While the remainder sweats and suffers, squirms 

To fill the beakers which they may not quaff. 
And here on one side was a whole vast pile 
Of food, controlled by one, — I had to smile — 

A puny, bloated wretch who held the power 

To nourish half a million. "Seize the hour — " 

I 'gan to cry. Too late ! For the reel broke ! 
The title— ''GENUS HOMO"— I awoke. 



116 ACKOSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Thoughts on Seeing Mont Blanc. 

I see thee stand majestic and exalted, Oh Mont Blanc. 

Gazing with calm, immaculate superiority upon me here. 

Thou art splendid and aloof. 

And I know that even upon the other side of the world 

Kilauea is bursting with rage at thy cold disdain of her. 

But not so I. I smile at thee. 

For on my own continent Mount Whitney dwarfs thee as if 
thou were naught. 

And she too, proud though she be, sinks into insignificance 
in the depths of the glorious Grand Canon of Ari- 
zona 

Which in itself is a faint, scarcely definable crack in the sur- 
face of the earth. 

Nor is our earth mighty, 

The sun is our center and lord. 

But there are stars we see to which the sun appears as if it 
were but a fragment of their own star-dust. 

Is that the end then? 

No. 

There are other and greater existences of which we shall 
learn for we have the capacity for knowledge and 
appreciation. 

Wherefore we fret and chafe and burn and slay and starve 
and torture one another, and bow down to hobgob- 
lins. 

Perhaps you have a right to disdain some of us, Mont Blanc. 

But I smile at your vain assumption of greatness because 
of your useless size compared with my pygmy shape, 
which holds the power of thought and reason. 



BARON VANE. 117 

Rank and File. 

They called me to the colors, 

And I swore I would not go, 
For who are they that keep away 

From trench and gun-butt's blow? 

Why should I fight for glory, 

Theglory of thefool? 
Why should I stink on hell's hot brink 

For king and nobles' rule? 

I have no place to lay my head, 

My family starve in peace, 
Why should I die to keep on high 

A system that should cease? 

What care I for the landed men. 

Nor cot nor lot have I, 
I fight for those who war have chose, 

For their fat bags I die ! 

The Germans might give better rule, 

So let the Germans come ! 
I am no hound to leap at sound 

Of rattling, battling drum. 

But then they got conscription. 

And go I must and will ; 
And in a trench amid the stench 

I wait for men to kill. 

And spade in hand well used to toil 

I dig on like a mole. 
Lost all the dream and all the gleam 

Of mv immortal soul. 



118 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The ape, as I, seratclied lousy hide, 

But he was high in tree, 
And he had that, I once grasped at, 

For he, at least, was free ! 

He did not know the fearful crash. 
The glare that makes us blind, 

Nor faced the brunt of guns in front. 
And guns that drive behind. 

Oh you who herd us 'gainst our will. 

Afraid to speak or think, 
The truth we see ! Here's joy to thee. 

In lust of dregs we drink. 

Sell you our flesh, our wives, our brats. 
But take our strongest scorn 

You shan't know pain to meet our stain, 
Your entrails ne'er were torn ! 

One rank we have, one sense of might, 

That makes us men again ; 
While damned ye are by your proud star, 

Y^'e ne'er shall know man's pain ! 

The mocking fates that give you power 
Have made us naught but clod, 

We die or kill as is your will ; 
But we pray to our God : 

"Oh Lord of life and death and all 
That goes with this dead world. 
Give them not harm from thy long arm, 
We wish them not o'erhurled. 

"We would not have them suffer too. 
For that would make them men ; 
It w^ould not suit to give to brute 
The guerdon past their ken. 



BARON VANE. 119 

"No pain that raises our poor clay 
Up nearer to the sky, 
They live as hound, keep them in bound, 
Let them so live and die ! 

"No manly pain, by men well met. 
No heroism shown, 
No agony, as given by thee, 
We feel in brain and bone ! 

"But as some lap-dog, fat and foul, 
Let them drown in sense joy, 
They live as beast, then let, at least, 
Them die without alloy. 

"Of true man pain that raises us 
From such poor curs as they ! 
With this attent we are content. 
Oh God, for this we pray !" 



To Critics. 

On yonder heights there blooms a fair white rose ; 
The path to which, Alas, nobody knows. 
Some few there are w^ho strive, just miss the crown ; 
And all the rest, Alas, tear their work down. 



120 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



To Elegists Who Seek Reflected Honor. 

Forgot their idle chatter 

And their nioan, 
That sought with silly clatter, 

Futile groan 
To cast an elegy of one beyond their power, 
To wreathe his molten steel with blighted meadow flower. 

United were they railing 

At mute tongue, 
Aspersed me envy's failing ; 

Have I sung, 
Or was there need of statue or of song 
For one to whom all noble things belong? 

They say he is in heaven 

Muting horn. 
All things of joy there given — 

Why then mourn? 
How do they reconcile grotesque belief 
With their affected and with my true grief? 

Gone is that noble Spirit ! 

His God-hood, 
Who of us all can near it, 

Where he stood? 
In death he lost the world, us, not a thing ! 
And we lost Him, lost all — how can I sing? 



BARON VANE. 121 



Light on Shadows— The Journey of a Day. 

To me cast down and daunted in my youth 
By shadowed specter of a grinning god 
And knowledge that the brain was bound in clod, 

Came Man's own dauntless Spirit with the Truth. 

Nor did he spare to mitigate with ruth, 

But struck me with his stern and painful rod, 
And knighted me, sprung from the sickly sod. 

To fellowship with men ; and spoke, forsooth : 

"Come, weakling, if thou canst, through cruel pain 
To manhood ; then shalt see the dreadful round 
Which thou hadst deemed so harsh, but testing ground. 

Seest not the longest shades at morn are lain 
To fright the weak ; at noon beneath thy feet ; 
And stretched at eve, now known, but cool retreat?" 



122 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Our Duty As Neutrals. 

Speaks not to us in solemn phrase 
The stillness of the market place, 
The ruined nave, the rifled tomh— 
If not to US, Oh God, to whom? 

Speeds not from us the succoring food 
To every widow and her broofl. 
To stricken lands of sterile womli — 
If not from us, Oh God, from whom? 

Dwells not in us a faith and trust 
Onr idols arc not shattered dust, 
"When other li.c:hts are one with gloom- 
If not in ns. Oh God, in whom? 



BARON VANE. 123 



Washington and the Anarchist. 

Ah, he was wise, they say ; his seeing eyes 

Saw wondrous visions in the arching skies. 

He gave three times a score of thousands death, 

Full many a brave young lad lost gallant breath 

That might have pulsed true fire, or might have sung- 

For what can hold before a golden tongue 

That sings through ages, when the battle-cry 

Is hushed, and all their futile brayings die? 

They called him patriot, his locks were crowned, 

O'er all his fellow men he stood renowned. 

Above all men is that one finely great 

Who burns with noble zeal to free his state. 

All honor be to such, who change the vain 

Clod-rule from log to stork, or back again ! 

In yon black box beneath a numbered board 
There too lies one whose brain had genius stored ; 
The calm, pale face, the lank and raven hair, 
The mad, brave features death has made so fair ; 
The swoll'n veined neck, the black bruise under ear 
Reveal sweet meed states grant the truth they fear. 
He slew a scoundrel ruler, slew a man 
Who, ruthless, bled and tortured his own clan ; 
Whose only claim to manhood was the shape 
That we have built through agony from ape ; 
Who strove with all his foul and stupid might 
To push us back to brute, to keep in night 
All of the Race's future — Learn ye then. 
How great a crime is this of freeing men ! 



124 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Inevitable Question. 

Along the field the plowshare rusts ; 

The field is furrowed well 
In slashes long and gaping wide, 

Where burst the frequent shell. 

Manure heaped idle 'gainst the barn, 
With phosphate piled around ; 

While man and horse rot in a trench 
To fertilize the ground. 

A brooding woman sits and weeps, 
As lonel}' drips the rain ; 

Yet has she goodly company — 
Hunger and Fear and Pain. 



The field is fertilized, deep-plowed. 

To last year's blackened roots ; 

And yet the woman starving cries, 

"Oh God ! where are the fruits?" 



This province lost the olden name ; 

A syllable or two, 
They tore from yonder city gate ; 

And christened it anew. 

This boundary line was moved some miles ; 

The river flows the same ; 
The lands are neither more nor less, 

Changed though they be in name. 



BARON VANE. 125 .• 

A thinking nation ponders long, > 

And reckons up the gain; ^ 

For that there is in measure huge — ^ 

Anger and Debt and Stain. \ 



Full half the world is conquered now 

Teutons are Slavs or Jutes, 
Medals galore, changed maps and yet, 
"Oh God ! where are the fruits?" 



Baba. 

" 'Tis a long lane that has no turning" 

And so my fortune must survive these crashes 
That left me desolate and grimly sore 
And satisfied that soon the worst were o'er. 
And so it was, for all my goods ceased burning — 

When quite burnt out — and my new goods were ashes ! 



The Lost Savor. 

I struggled after trifles when a youth 

Which came too late with manhood, not as bliss 
As I had hoped ; for with them came the truth 

They tasted then stale as an unsought kiss. 



126 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



"The Hobgoblin of Little Minds." 

In ancient times when men knew less than now 

Most of them feared the unknown and bowed them down 
To plead for help from beast and wave, the frown 

Of adverse destiny ; some few did plow 

The rocky lands and planned them when and how, 
To trap and slay the beasts. All the renown 
Went to the cowards' gods. Each simple clown 

Thanked God for man's sore loins, his sweated brow. 

So has it ever been. Man went ahead 

And made the world safe harboring for man 
And died, unthanked, since far-off time began, 

While cravens prayed and crouched in sluggish dread. 
Nor have things changed in aught, for e'en to-day 
When there is work to do — fools kneel and pray ! 



BARON VANE. 127 



The Sacred and Profane. 

When I was digging hard, up came a man 

Of sober face and smug and pious frown. 
His paunch was plump though hid 'neath sable gown, 
And in his nasal voice he then began, 
"Why, youth, thus labor cheerfully? You can 

Not make your peace with God this way. Kneel down ! 

And plead thy sinfulness, Jesus' renown 
Will give you eternal life. And give — " He ran. 

With my swift foot attending on his rout. 

That traitor to mankind ! A sorry lout. 
Who feeds his portly stomach on man's work 
And then thanks God, the man-degrading shirk ! 

Here or hereafter, I care naught for kings ! 

Despite his craven fears my heart still sings. 



128 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



One Laughs That One May Not Weep. 

It wearies me to see the rusting tools 

Of earth, in sober coats, stiff and upright, 
Too dignified to sweat in common sight. 

It wearies me to hear the learned schools 

With various owlish creeds and bookish rules. 
And he who forced to smile at saying trite, 
Frowned down — yea — even murdered, should he quite 

Laugh at the solemn litany of fools. 

And yet these same good citizens, forsooth, 
Burst into \dolent mirth at some poor youth. 
Who, raised to ecstasy by glorious dreams 
Or wine, or both, doth stagger, drunken seems ; 
And cannot know that there is naught on earth 
Too low for serious thought, too high for mirth. 



BARON VANE. 129 

The Free-lover on the Relation of the Sexes. 

The one is tow und the other fire, 

And the touch of the two is death, 
For godhood burns when manhood turns 

To the lure of the hot, sweet breath. 

And never the flame that ate not fuel, 

And the tow is cold and dead ; 
And the loss of the fuel by eternal rule 

Means fire no more glows red. 

Oh sweet are a woman's lips and breasts, 

And dear is the covered sin ; 
But can hot hell-fire bite so w^ell 

As the loss of the god within? 

Who ties himself with carnal chains 

Casts all his life away. 
Sells all for brute and cloying fruit. 

And binds himself for aye. 

The frequent dish — a glutton dies. 

The frequent cup — life gone; 
And worse than these are passion's lees 

That let a beast live on ! 

And yet they fix by men and god 

A sordid pleasure-bed ; 
To make beasts thirst seem not accursed 

Some empty words are said. 

In public sight they license get 

To live in lust and shame ; 
Exposed to all the banns they call — 

Why not the act with name? 



^30 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

For what with two makes gods of men 

And grants a mortal birth 
Makes man a beast when love's sweet feast 

Is blared to all the earth. 

Not but for one divine, mad hour 

But for the whole life span, 
As food and sleep this act they keep — 

Does such become a man? 

And yet I would not Love decry, 

But turn it not to Lust, 
And cease the base and constant chase 

Ere blossom yields to dust. 

For e'en the beasts have time of year 

And the rest is clean and cold. 
And yet you cling to a sanctioned thing 

That sees itself grow old. 

There is no Love where Duty is, 

No pleasure unrestrained, 
And yet you think repeated drink 

In strength and joy unwaned. 

And how they rail at me who live 

As clean and undefiled 
By sense released and nuinhood ceased 
As any clear eyed child. 

For I control by spirit pure 

The passion they defile, 
My love as rare beyond compare 

As is their union vile. 

In passion flame that glowed with red 

I fused my strength and will. 
And turned through pain the threatened stain 

That welded might and skill : 



BARON VANE. 131 

And used the fierce, white beacon fire 

As torch to light my way, 
Though hell-god peeped as the mad flames leaped 

From eyes that held their sway. 

Oh take as I from lips that give 

All free and unconstrained 
A purer flame than you could tame 

While all your laws remained. 

No force, no rights, nor god nor man 

To bid that lust be all. 
But only joy without alloy 

When mate to mate shall call I 



Answer. 

Both of one body, as you say, dear Love ; 

Yet I, the root, dig blindly through the mold ; 

While you stretch branches in the sun's fresh gold 
And oft I miss that laughing breeze above. 



132 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 

The Little Excommunicator. 

I'm scheduled for a dozen hells 
As punishment for cap and bells, 
For lancet and for reason's light, 
For helping men from stupid night. 

Mahomet, Christ, and e'en the Sun, 
Have cursed me well, each single one; 
Another dooms my soul to join 
With some beast issue from dull loin ; 

Egyptian idol, crocodile, 
Ape, bird and cat, and Isis' smile, 
Have sentenced me to fearful fate, 
And for my soul grim Plutos wait. 

Dark Cerberus and all the rest, 
What a dense nightmare on my chest, 
S])iTits, devils, im])s, and God, 
All have damned this frightened clod. 

Hope springs eternal nevertheless, 
And comes my rattling teeth to bless ; 
They'll have to share eternity 
For all to get a chance at me ! 

And when my brain with thought I vex 
And see how sects damn other sects, 
I see my opportunity, 
I know damn well they can't agree ! 

And while they hurl their thunderbolts. 
Surcharged with seven times seven volts, 
While all the various godlings bray, 
I think my soul can slip away ! 



BARON VANE. 133 

The tiny thing they're fighting for, 
So small and slight — Why furthermore, 
E'en I who own it wouldn't know it, 
And yet 'tis there — how well they show it ! 

Shall steal among these ponderous legs. 
And find some place amid the kegs, 
Where Jove keeps his best nectar hid — 
And Heaven help some barrel's lid ! 

With drink celestial then restored. 
And by new birth myself a Lord 
( For once in-soul-ate with that stuff 
For hell and devils one's too tough ) , 

Then shall I know I'm in my Heaven, 
My soul inspirit with that leaven, 
I'll seek these gods and devils out. 
And interrupt their noisy bout. 

That kind of courage is my forte, 
Full primed for any tart retort, 
I'll swagger out and curse them well, 
And tell THEM-SELVES to go to Hell ! 



Revelations, Book 13: 23. 

Oh what is the use to dissemble, 'tis sin ! 
Conceal not your horror — I'll show you my grin. 
You think I belong to the Satanic school. 
And I, my good man, think that you are a fool ! 



134 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



To Maerdalene. 



"to' 



' .l'ou would not want to know her," quick they said, 
*'She is — " and then they whispered in my ear. 
Their very breath grows loathsome as they sneer 
The full description of their own foul bed. 
Bell, book and candle drive these brains, long dead. 
Or rather never living, with the fear 

Of people's mouthings should their love be clear 
Of lust and bound desire, the beast inbred. 

Maid, I care not if thou art maid or no — 

How many times before were bruised thy lips — 
How many times before the grail low dips 

Into the fountain for the living flow. 
I only know if thou the strength have got 
To leave the past behind — then it was not. 



RARON VANE. 135 



Proclamation. 

At last when I, bold atheist, am dead, 

And hell-flre flames with glee in white and red, 

And all the hosts pitch-forks and grates shine up 

And gnash foul fangs for morsel fat to sup ; 

Oh Lucifer and mad Beelzebub, 

Think not my corpse to torture — Here's the rub ! 

I am as haughty e'en as your dread selves 

( Just let me get one of your pitch-fork helves ) 

Fresh, strong and lusty as your very flame. 

Think you such devilishness as mine to tame? 

Ah no, you scoundrels, I shall beat you well, 

Until with lamentations rings all hell ; 

Then, my proud hellions, up through chaos we, 

Self at the head, all shouting with fierce glee. 

Again we'll storm the pearly gates amain, 

And this time, brother fiends, not — not in vain ! 



13G ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



Testament. 

Ah ! not for me, my friends, the false head bowed, 
Nor monumented stone, nor silvered case, 
Nor shall the maggots and my corpse embrace 

The ground which might for better crops be plowed. 

Nor on my festering bones vain sable shroud. 
Nor yet the honor of a frauded space 
Stolen from the living who lack dwelling place, 

Who stifle while my rail holds back the crowd. 

But lay this carcass with old Galen's train, 
Unravel nerve and sinew, probe the brain — 
Nor need the man be learned, if some youth 
Be taught by my poor clay some spark of truth — 
There be my shell as it's soul loved to be. 
With thee, dear Learning, and dear Man, with thee ! 



BARON VANE. 137l 



Sight Unseen. 

''Courage," he said, and pointed to the dark. 

I shuddered at the fearful sounds which rose 

From out its bounds, dull groans and sullen blows. 
With howl and shriek of fiendish echo — Hark ! 
The entrance lay, trees gaunt and reft of bark. 

Through which the sad wind moaned. Oh dreadful foes ! 

And cowed each soul which near that portal goes. 
Foul home of ghouls, of dread world's-end the mark ! 

Yet still mine Angel chose that puzzling cheer ; 

Back lay the sunny vales, ahead the drear ; 

There, home and friends, all true, all strong, all gold. 

To fight beside, protect, and make me bold ; 

While here the menace lay, grim, lone, and stark — 

"Courage !" he said, and pointed to the dark ! 



138 ACROSS THE TIIKESHOLU. 



"But Now Face to Face." 

Oh ye who shudder at tht common end, 

And hold abhorrent all Death's various shape; 
The still-birth product of that coward rape ; 

The sweet breath stol'n as the fair maid did bend 

To seek her lover's lii)s, and used to mend 
Weak lungs of fading age ; the gowns which drape 
The superman, a shroud ; while this dull ape 

Unrobed in truth, still his meat-bone doth rend — 

Yet takes the gardener as he treads the row 
Of nodding blooms, the fairest ones that blow. 
Not pale or withered stems, as worthy flowers. 
The fairest of the yield, for his lord's bowers ; 
And see, thrown off his dread and form abhorred, 
That Death is but the gardener for the Lord ! 



BARON VANE. 139 



Grief. j 

If he should ne'er return ; why you would think J 

Perhaps he was not here, perhaps some wraith, 

Some dear remembered phantasy, or faith, 
Embodied ere fulfillment, pressed the brink r 

Of somber shadows, just the dew to drink 

From warm sweet lips that wordless, yet so saith 

That all else were as naught ; the boon they prayeth 
To stifled be 'til selves in one Self sink ! « 

E 

A touch of long, slim fingers on your lips, \ 

"He kissed me here, he did, and did eclipse ' 

Their round paled splendor with his fiercer glow. 

He was — he must live — must !" Nor ever know i 
With puzzled eyes the riddle of that sleep — 

Face downward on the couch you lie and weep ! '' 



140 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



"One Man's Meat." 

No Sileniis is this, no Bacchus crowned 

With myrtle wreath or spray of sparkling wine 
This baptized votary, in shambling line 

That creeps along the city's towering mound. 

Ten thousand zealots with one prayer profound 
With surly growl or with vague humble whine 
He asks food price — yet what a place to dine, 

The tavern door for which the sot is bound. 

Yet who am I to question mortal's need. 

Or by my raptures judge his sodden dream? 
Why should I grudge drab life a transient gleam, 

However rank, that flowers from poison seed? 
Who knows the pleasure that his spirit yields, 
His bleared eyes gaze on what Elysian fields? 



BARON VANE. 141 



Fragments of a jwem in quatrains to have hcen entitled 

The Unknown God. 

An eager child that grasps its toy balloon, 
Frail airy prize enmeshed in silken fold — 
It bursts and shrinks to naught — and, oh the gold, 

And like round splendor of the placid moon ! 



The maiden grasping at a fond romance 

Takes fairy prince, all ideal, to her breast — 
And foul and sodden is the hateful guest — 

Sees all her life in spectral form advance ! 



The youth who sets his heart on store of gold. 
Exults in shining metal faster brought. 
Until he sees the leaden weight, dear bought, 

A burden on him — and himself grown old ! 



10 



142 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



And we, who fixed our mind and soul on Thee, 

Our dear God, Knowledge ; frames are thin and worn ; 
Our brows are haggard and our garments torn — 

But oh, the vision that our eyes still see ! 



Aye, there are those who would describe and fix 
The finite bound'ries of an infinite Lord, 
And with like petty craft build up their hoard 

Into an idol, — God of mud and sticks ! 



And worship then with blind yet seeing eyes, 
"By faith we understand our future state. 
And see all things revealed ; thrown wide the gate"- 
Yet see they not the splendor of the skies ! 



BARON VANE. 143 



And some there are who have no fairy bowers, 
To lure them on ; no hope of finite bliss 
Made infinite ; our dull eyes see not this — 

Hear of their God, and then, unknown, hear Ours ! 



Oh worshipers of Baal, rend your fold ! 

With thirsty fingers tear your opened breast — 
And still without the threshold is your guest ! 

The flesh upon your altars stark and cold ! 



Yet still the child hands take a passive clod, 
And run through it a stick, and raise it there, 
And babble, "Was there ever god so fair?" 

And make from finite clay infinite God ! 



144 ACROSS THE THRESHOLD. 



And we who worship Toil as only Lord, 

When faintinji; hands have loosed and dropped from plow 

In glazing eyes envisioned as we bow — 
Earth's child the richer for our garnered hoard ! 



For Labor has a usury its own 

Unlike the fearful burden of dead gold. 

Or passion tlanie in lust grown stale and cold, 

A usury it claims in blood and bone ! 



"Dear price to pay," you cry, and hot tears burn. 
And all comf>assionate our God replies, 
"Dost count as naught that glory in the skies? 
Seest not the splendor paid thee in return !" 



Look on thyself and check such babyish breath; 
If poor and mean, oblivion lit; if great 
And noble, reach that most immortal state — 

God-man who gives a lordly gift to Death ! 



W 18 






°*^ ^'-'^O ^Pu "'' <V^ 




A C 



\> I • • , 











'j^ .r 












S' ^^ o 




v^*^- 































^"•^^^ 












J.*^ ^^.. - 







'^o^ 






'v. 






/ «X» " V^ 'Tjk *V *Z* " vi ^ 



